You’re dead, George. You just don’t have the sense to lie down.
Because it may be fragile, but I think it’s also immortal. We
Movies, after all, are only an illusion of motion comprised of thousands of still photographs. The imagination, however, moves with its own tidal flow.
When there’s no more room in hell, this artifact said, the dead will walk the earth.
If being a grown-up really meant knowing better, why did his father go on smoking three packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day?
He was a poet who sometimes taught Free University classes or travelled in the western states of Utah, Nevada, and Arizona, speaking to high school English classes, stunning middle-class boys and girls (he hoped) with the news that poetry was alive-narcoleptic, to be sure, but still possessed of a certain hideous vitality.
It was also easy to imagine the good smells, the laughter as they sat down. Easy to imagine . . . but probably a mistake. It
Kill him, you must kill him Jacky, and her, too. Because a real artist must suffer. Because each man kills the thing he loves.
It’s a little place on the Pacific Ocean. You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific? They say it has no memory. That’s where I want to live the rest of my life. A warm place with no memory.
I am, he thought dimly, watching a vampire take a piss.