Very shortly il become a piss artist in las vegas, and while my show will be at late nights, only for five or six days, it will be on the margins. I don’t expect many to attend. Because this time it is not my gig, I am not headlining. This time while Calcutta turns out like vegas, il be staining the glass of my soul with an image of some icon, or be hanging upside down from a ceiling painting the temptation of Christ. Something that is of little worth at the present, while its being made, but which will draw great pathos in the very very distant future. Then obviously il have wonder and sympathy, things which I don’t understand now, and hence which il have to borrow. In that time il not be there.
This time the milky city will be someone else’s. Like a whore it will readily give love to those that come asking. It will ask no questions, it wont open a bedtime book, or between passions be afraid of flashing bulbs. She will tell whatever love there is is in this moment. Then die, and if you can, be unborn. It will not pretend that there is so much more. Calcutta will constantly remind there is so little. She will be ready for them that have suddenly become butterflies. For those that don’t know this yet, but soon will when past midnight of an undying day they suck the honey from secret mouths. And boys and girls will be surprised like they were sleeping in the meadow and a star brushed their cheek. For boys and girls when they sit in the lovely like the owl and the pussycat. My clock has sped up, and il find myself downstream. Very soon. Then too, as is now, il be wishing more than anything else for relief, for a crowd. For all my friends. For the bottle, and the bong. Then too il be wishing pujas.