This morning I stuffed myself with garbage food. I have a little money in my pocket, so I’m making up for lost time when I was broke. After paying off my prodigal debts, I have $150 in my pocket, almost a month’s rent at the SRO, but there’s no guarantee of more money in the future.
LATER
I’ve just beaten-off. I could have fucked Christine M, who came over my room to smoke a joint, but I begged off and she left angry. The telephone down the SRO hallway keeps ringing. The caller must be stupid. These rooms are small. If someone doesn’t answer the phone, it’s because they have a good reason.
I sit at the desk with paper and pen. I stare out the window. The alley between 11th and 12th Street is sunlit. Not a single word can I write on a blank sheet of paper. I close this journal. I’ve been writing in them for over three years. Every word meaning nothing, but I am content for the moment.
Alice is in love with me. I have money in my pocket, I’m young and healthy, but my armpits stink. Is that a sign of decay?
LATER
I ran into William Lively on Christopher Street. We visited Ro at David’s Potbelly. Like him she attended NC School of the Arts.
“That’s a surprise to see the two of you together. Two different worlds, but Peter is an expert of traveling between world. First Andy, then Kirk, and now you. Who knows where you’ll end up.”
I warned her about my upcoming birthday party.
“I’ll try and come.”
“I understand if you don’t.”
She looked very tired.
William and I strolled along West Street. I sieg-heiled the cruising leather boys. I have interest in that game. They were angry at me and I responded, “You and your leather are the height of Nazi fashion.”
William laughed.
He doesn’t have the S&M itch, but he does want me.
LATER
Blood pounds,
He forces the door
An easy job
The thrill of invasion
Plus the satisfaction of booty
Ah, thiefdom the rue of no one.
LATER
After I recite this poem to William, he says, “Tim got robbed again.”
“It wasn’t me.” I hadn’t been to their apartment in weeks.
“I know. Tim doesn’t lock the door. All his tricks know that. Andy said it was you.”
“Then he’s suspect number #1. The guilty always blame it someone not in the room.”
I’m still pissed about their accusing me of robbing them.
When of course it was their our friend, Andy Reese.