Trapdoor Fucking Exit, Part 4Andrew Mister
* I know I can’t separate feelings from faces, but what’s the story buried beneath all this abstraction: when you move some things get lost and others are broken. Still you can feel caught up: from now on I will make my days as I see fit. But on closer inspection one finds—Enough! Enough story to carry me through a few more pages at least. I can’t separate people from the pages they’ve been printed on. Tomorrow arrives making yesterday appear pitiful, but I’d like to remain drenched its warm yellow tincture like a family photograph from the 70’s, cannabis dust in the spine of a book, before it’s gone once and for all. Once and for all I’d like to acknowledge my indebtedness to the works of Buffy Sainte-Marie. I have to admit I’m getting drunker & drunker every time I go to San Francisco The Beauty Bar, the Arrow Bar, El Rio, everyone else is racing home with someone while I can’t find my way back to the bay bridge. * And it feels strange writing about the city since I’m rarely there, and when I am I only rush to Aquarius to pick up my records, stop to see if Cedar and Johnny are home then hope that Sandra will eat dinner with me at Taqueria Cancun— Then back to Oakland back to the lake back to sleep. I dream that Astrid is trying frantically to free a yellow bird from a nest of extension cords. Now it’s over. The heater only makes the living- room warm when it’s on, but I won’t leave it on because I’m cheap. And it’s all right to be cheap as long as you spend your money on things that matter: books, records, and drugs. Sandra thinks that I am wrong about this: So warmth doesn’t matter? No, it does not. Does every argument have to end with a joke? No, not every one.
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