what I couldn't know was what was about to happen



Pale blue dress shirt untucked flaps over flithy, thin white corduroys, narrow hips, thin chest. My hair really does feel like a kind of sandpaper. I smooth it back with the palm of my left hand, then look in the restroom mirror to realize I've smudged the side of my head with blood. String of blood falling from nose to stripe shirt. I bunch up some of the white paper towels to stop it then I'm like fuck it. Blood in my sandy grizzle, blood in my mustache. I whip open the heavy door and step back out into McDonald's, digging in my pocket for change. Just a small black coffee will do. The black girl at the register looks through me like I'm already dead. I find myself back out on Sixth Ave. asking anyone who's smoking if they can spare a butt. Some high-assed packed in skirt & blazer platinum haired cunt of I'd say 45 opens her horse mouth in revulsion as she passes. Big glistening teeth. Looks like someone I knew once maybe back when they were purer. Can't say. I look to the sidewalk and see I've been trailing blood about half a block. Sure my self-respect is gone. These people don't know me. I peel off down a side street about halfway into the West Village and start humping it toward the river. I'm halfway there before I remember it's the East River I want. I just want out of this fucking hate eating kill me as you fuck me city but it's just not that easy, it's not that easy man, it's just not that easy.