Tap Tap go my teeth as I gawk in the mirror. I tap them: They're hard, sort of white...One is broken. I see skin cascade from my bones like a faucet. A walrus bulldog-looking, blank apparition...

There's nothing behind the grey teeth, walrus laughing. The dull, bulldog skin dripping udder-like, down...There is madness. Unrest. Discontentment. Starvation.

I go out, and sunlight insults me, offends. I squint horribly. Horrid the heat and its light. "Fuckin' cunt," now I'll murmur, as one breezes past...

"Fuckin' cunt." An old woman stopped, stooped at a stop light...

"You cunts." A young couple in love, arm in arm..."Fuckin' bitch!"

I am happy today. Today's Thursday.

On Thursdays, I splash from my bed like a whale...Tap Tap on my teeth, pick my face, step outside...It's the day of the week, every week, I get off.

I go down to the Kino and get my rocks off! Rocks are solid. They hurt if I don't do it weekly...I come, and then bathe in the full emptiness. Like a cave in a mudslide, soft walls squeezing in...Head is swelling with silence, soul pounding with void.

Leave my stain on the pungent red floor of the Kino.

I'm hoping I won't have to see anyone. No one moves me. There's no one I care to enjoy...I mutter out loud to myself as I walk.

There's the people: the fuckers who crowd my each day…Drive me back to my place after breakfast...The women: the beauties who know, and their egos; the men who

want these, and their painful, thick stupors...I'm stupid. You want me though, righ'? Word.

Yeah, boy-y-y...She's drunk at a sidewalk café when I see her. She's crossing her fat, craven thighs in a skirt...Now in real Life, Cristina says she's a comic. "So say something funny," I say, and she farts.

"I hate being ordered to say something funny!"

"Get over it," say I. "So what do you drink?"

"Well, I'm mourning. The loss of my sense of myself. So I'm finding myself--trying to--with a drink."

…'Bye.

She follows me, though, to a place called the Kettle. We order a third Flaming Cucaracha. "Welcome to your new addiction."

"So like, are you as fucking trashed...?"

"As you are? I don't think so, baby. I don't think that's possible. Your ass is pretty nice, though. Stand up (isn't that, anyway, what you do...?)."

"You only want to look!" she slurs.

I lift her short thick, craven skirt. She squeals, runs off to the rest room. "How much for the drinks?" I ask. Dude brings the bill. My eyes fall out.

I reach into Cristina's purse and pull out three crisp twenties.

"You need change?"

"Of course," I blink.

Dude brings it, and I leave the bar.

Now smoking in a doorway cross the street, I watch Cristina leave: She stumbles out the door and down the stoop, sways sideways like a crab...Grows sober as she peers

around, pretends not even to be looking; calm, she lights a cigarette, and plays she's taking in the night.

...She looks so damn ridiculous, I can't announce myself! And so she finally goes back in and I unwind into a cab uptown. "The cunt!" I laugh, as we blow lights off. "What a fucking nose on her..."

The taxi cab driver, a little Chinese chick, is pissed because I know the way I take home. She's an asshole, all surly, with sermons on driving. "Whatever," I say. "That's great, left, 57th..." She turns, and proceeds to run over a biker.

"Wha’...!? The fuck are you doing, man? Didn't you see her!? That's good right here," I yell. "Stop the damn cab!"

The biker is bleeding and dancing around…as China Girl, beside herself, screams suddenly, "No cursing!" She throws open her driver’s door and steps into traffic...A small crowd has formed where she's knocked down the biker. I drop a five dollar bill onto the front seat…

"You pay me! You motherfucking!” China hollers.

"…I paid you!"

"You give me!"

"I gave you! The front seat..."

"You pay, motherfucking! No curse in my cab!"

"There's a five dollar bill on your fucking front seat, bitch!" She's slapped back and forth cross my bleeding-now mouth..."You are evil. You bad man. You bad, evil man!"

"Yeah, wha'efer...!" She's pushing me, up in my face...

Turn my back on her, buck-like, sprint into a bar.

Inside I see Fag…Rather, he checks me out as I bolt in the door...Like an airplane, he veers on two-wheels to stop me; like, all of a sudden he's crossing my path! Giant dick swinging loose in his indolent shorts...Fag has done this before. In the past, he has probably even got some; like a dog that's been trained, poor cat just keeps on sniffing...

I knee him in his groin until he howls. Winces, smiles at me..."You're still sweet," mewls the Faggot.

"I love you," say I.

"Yeah, what kind of light have you got?" to the bartender…Raises his eyebrows, looks up toward my sound…

This guy wedged in front of me's holding his ear. Making loud, clucking sucks of disapproval (Get the fuck out of my way, you oaf!)…I shout again, "...kind of light beer have you got?"

The guy with the earache ducks down, turns to face me. "You wanna get in here?" he asks, shuffling sideways.

"No, no. That's alright...You have Miller? Yeah, Miller! And no glass...Yeah, MILLER!"

The guy with the earache knees me in the groin.

At the end of the bar playing drums in the air sits the Child Actor Richling Huff...He's not sitting.

Oh.

…So this is his place now: a cane on a shelf where his vodkas are stocked; on display, with a cap, and a "Huffy's Place" t-shirt...Richling plays murderous drums in the air. 'Til both fists beat down hard on the bar like two rack toms, and everyone's drink

skips a beat to the right…"Fucking moron," I think to myself, and pinch wetly, the ass of the cunt deep in smoke near a window.

"You've! Got a stinking cigar in your mouth…Do you care?”

”And perhaps I'm just happy to see you…?

"I doubt it. You look really ugly, y'know? Like a guy. Like a dyke. And you're here by yourself...What a drag!"

"You're an asshole!"

"Two lemondrop shots, please." The bartender snaps to; I slap them both back. "You want something...?"

"How do you know I'm alone!?"

"'Cause I smell you. Perceive what you're going through, always. Two more, please. Here! Have one…You gotta get out more!"

I hold up my hand to high-five her. She grasps it.

First contact is made, like a walk on the moon. "Aesthetically, you're really nowhere," I tell her. "You're nice, though. You smell nice. I'll bet you crave fuck."

She excuses herself...To make a phone call!?

Whatever!

I leave…

And the China Girl's waiting...Beats on my chest like an ape as I walk! Now it's late out...The streets scream surrender like I do. "Get OFF me!" I whirl, run back into the bar.

I am trapped. Bar scene ciphers and echoing void…I see thirty-some bobbling, babbling skulls; catch the homely Cigar Girl half-snarl at me (She's ignoring the cop trying buying her drinks)...Richling Huff puffs the words to some witless rock classic, still air-drumming back of the bar, looking stupid.

I spin...Pick a payphone up, punch in some numbers: a bright, tight, white skirt there, just wanna get close to. I haven't got change on me, no one to call...But I stand

there, and punch in some numbers beside her.

This violent, loud tone comes on, screeching buzz static: "...you'd like to make a call, please hang up..." I stare at the cunt in the bright, tight, white skirt. At the cunt...at her juncture between thigh and moon. Nest of succulence...scented, damp anticipation...

Her meat-getter seizes her, drags her outside.

Fuckin' cunt ("...please hang up...")! She was too vibrant, anyway…New England imbecile down for the night! Watch her ass in the bright, tight, white skirt swing away. Singing happily, laugh, not a care in the world; not a thought in her head, save the morning's alarm clock…She looks at her watch.

She has declared fun dead.

…A hand spread palm flat on the window between us: a face from some gig I worked ages ago. Mouths my name, smiles, hurries past, waves recognition...The ass in the bright, tight, white skirt is not there.

Isn't there...there is nothing so grey as illusion. The bathroom: I tap on my teeth in the mirror…They're grey. Craven. Indolent.

Longing to score…

Walrus-hanging, I think, as I Tap Tap and stare...As the bathroom door slams opens: Cigar Girl there! In she clomps, on high heels too long, and she stumbles, and, hands on her hips, asks me why I ignore her.

"Ignore you...!? Look, bitch," I exclaim. "C'mere, baby!"

...That song by Jack Jones...How's it go? I start humming. No, that’s not

it...Maybe it's Tom...Anyway. Now she's singing…Spanking my ass in the mirror!

"Oww...Wait!" I say, startled. She’s burning the hairs off my leg with a match. “Jesus!...Hell are you doing!?”

She’s laughing now, up on the edge of the sink. "You are wicked...You’re evil, bitch! Come down off there...” She is laughing, she dance...Standing up in the sink!

"Uh...My name's Jeff, anyway...What was yours? Look, I'm thirsty. I gotta get in there, man...hands are dirty..."

She takes one, and slides it up into her legs.

"I love you!" I blurt out. She squats and starts gurgling…The door to the squalid, foul room slams again. Richling Huff, Child Actor, crawls in on all fours.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I..."

Kick him back out where he came! “Fuckin' cripple..."

...Cigar Girl is crying my name!

I stand outside, picking my nose in the peace dark. I'm feeble.

The stars and great night swell about me.

I'm asked for change not once, not twice, but four times. "Good luck, man," I off-put the last sorry sack.

"Good luck…!?"

!...Fuck you, then. Prick. Get a job, motherfucker! Door guy from a club near the bar flails happily…The guy he’s deranging is claiming to sue. From another door, whores peer out challenging toward me…They’re black as the night and my soul…

I go home.