To the Artist's Page             To our home page

To Kurt Lee's previous piece     To page 2

pages
page 1

i had the rite of spring in my pocket after the long ohio winter.
spring arrived, and often restless, preoccupied, lusty, i would 
spend the days wandering around. i wore the same clothes everyday.
i had let my hair grow and it looked like straw. my eyes were oily
and greasy. i was very thirsty. i drank beer and robitussin. when 
i wasn't working i was baked by wanderlust. i cant keep a single
thought in my mind, other than dreams for more than half an hour.
i spent the nights smoking weed, wandering around, dumping gasoline
on roadside shit and setting it afire. listening to symphony music.
writing ominous secretive garbage and reading proust and van gogh.

the old man lay in his white bed. white hair drew the pillow.
a glass of water sat on the bedside table. the sun reached in
through the windows. a mouth on his weary face stretched slightly.
the attic stairs made noise. a rusted accordion tossed over a
log. faces drew in and out of the dust and he winced behind his glasses.
a clock sat on the bedside table

one day in the late morning i walked across the fields, paths, and railways
looking down, or to the side, listening to the radio, the inoffensive
morning sun that spread gentle heat like a lovers hand through the still
cold morning air onto your meat as you lumbered, ambled or stumbled by.
i was chainsmoking, and smoking weed, and i was high sitting under a bridge
trying to ignore the graffiti and tossing garbage around, breaking bottles,
piss painting in the dust, and sitting on piles of wood or on the rail itself,
puffing away. sometimes i would listen to operas. rachmaninov, mozart, puccini,
leoncavallo, rimsky-korsokov. Borodini. stomped along in the stinking
rain listening to prince igor. in the early spring, when the dirt thaws,
the sewage plant does also, and the smell is deep down makes your skin itch
and your stomach convulse, your nose prick and your face resents anyone 
around you unaffected by the stench. scabbed and dashed bent street possums
slither into muddy holes. stout girls dove and spun in a candy green field
next to a piece of wonder years scenery. slapped their knee kids, crouched down
to tease an invisible cock and poised their cunts to intercept the magical
sperm soft ball, while the old wormy faces grunt and bellow underneath ballcaps
at the buried, incongruous chipped virgin bottlecaps bent inside moonlit mudpuddles
and daddy bent over the bed grinning at all the clipouts orgy on the wall fumbling
with his testicle coins. light a cigarette and hustle across the trestle. stop to kick
stones into the running water below, atop a concrete riverbed. dirt roads and tire tracks.
nose blowing and harmony sputters of the mouth working the expression of some feathertickle
in the bowel of the mind. abandoned rubber factory. we look at each other and say 
"what the hell are you doing here?
somewhat high, and i walk over the long bridge, and there was a bright green house
growing out of the trees. it reminded me of crack. a road dripped and laid into the 
horizon. pointing languorously forward. i buy two batteries at a gas station with a handful
of change.
i walked under trees that reached hopelessly for love when the wind blew. dogs coughed it up
at new scents and sounds. eventually i learned that acting turtle-like around a dog will
usually slake their interest. and eventually even later i learned that if you kicked a
threatening dog in its face that it would usually disband, depending on its size and character.
i decided to walk up the streets, through the terrifying incest web
of the magritte streetlights,
no tramps environmental unease like that one, even in the most crime cluttered sesame streets.
little candles trickling in the window like the fluctuating of a virgins navel as she's
peeled open the first time. artsy doodads nailed and stuck to chimneys and walls, hollywreath
cum stains so parents dig around in their children's asses and watch talk shows simultaneously.
muted expressions yelling out silently "don't disturb the sleepwalkers"
which is just about every
nabob grinding his loins into a snow blower sucking on a beercan and listening to men knocking
their balls around with their bats. the scent of manure gooses you like someone catching you
jacking off at a urinal. i wanted to be somewhere that smelled like flowers. decomposing even.
i passed under a bridge, and feeling watched by a sexually frustrated militia, sat down and 
began to smoke in an ugly pipe with lost of bad memories.
garbage trucks squeal as they drive in
reverse, cars slug by in coughing rain peeling on rubber. factories roar. expressway echo.
a train whistle. deafening i became high. i smiled and looked up. i thought about new orleans.
i thought about tom waits. i thought about beer. i thought about what other people thought.
i thought up fallacies. i jerked on my ego. i sneer and laughed at my thoughts and made
my hairs stick up. i thought about stravinsky. i thought about how it feels to cum after
you drink cough syrup. thoughts of fucking were innuendos because i wasn't to interested.
i thought about being drunk during mardi gras. i thought about fire. some churchbells 
clunked and played a song so curly haired soccermoms
could adjust their bluebells in their snowy 
suntailed windows and let the wind blow through their kitchen or look into the distance in 
the dim light with blue cigarette smoking easing up. i thought about some things to say but
forgot them when a car drove by. i heard something above, young female chatter. young girls
dressed in catholic uniform dresses tapped over the trestle above. my eyes opened from half
mast. my dick too. it didn't open though, it rose. i was looking up all their skirts. they wore
tiny panties, each different. one little girl wore silk black ones.
two little girls were wearing
none. i could feel cum hot easing up my cock. i reached in my pocket and juggle my nuts around
and came. when they were gone i began to click with laughter. i was hungry for pizza. i stopped
at the faucet and turned it on. all winter it hadn't worked and i was waterless on my gypsy
wanderings. now it worked, churning out dark rusty mud water into the gravedirt. it ran awhile
then the water became clear, cold sparkling against the blue sky gentle cool incipient spring
dawn air in the semi conscious afternoon .i sat down and smoked weed.
the next day i found rod drinking on a hill. i told him that i was going to sit under a bridge
and look up a bunch of
gradeschoolers dresses and smoke weed. he had nothing to do, he came along.
we sat under the bridge. black hood. the bells. the young girls teasing their virginity across
the bridge. rod covered his mouth. his body tensed. he was squeezing his rod through his pants.
that day, the same black silk panties, whites and pinks, three girls wearing none, the warm air
nudging the peach skin. the next day, i got dick and rod to go along.
the next day, pleasure was
there. the next day, beers, pleasure, rod, and dick were there.
the next day, beers, pleasure, rod, dick
and broomstick was there. we were bilge drunk and snickering and it was humid, beers hefty 
gut slouching out of his "ink and drink" t-shirt. i was smoking a giant cigar stuffed full of
KBs and dusted with crack.
the more i thought about this, the more i couldn't restrain my laughter.
also, i could see pleasure carried a knife in his boot, and this made suppressing the laughter
painful. i was also hard boiled behind my wet shorts, and it was tingling and passing
hot white little bulbs of cum into my boxers. the girls passed. one passed without panties.
rod took it out and began jiggling it. black silk panties. i whipped it out and began 
fisting up chords. another with no panties, pleasure pulled out his revolver.
a girl with a bloodstain.
dick aimed his dart. a fat girl wearing dark white circus tent. beers jacks off his beer
splattering suds around, two of us start chuckling.
broomstick sees everyone's hard-ons and whips
out his own and begins to sand it. a girl falls over, innocent glowing
little faces peer down at us yanking away at our dicks,
two of us then at each other's duet-jerking.
glowing god threatening nuns face peers down at us, girls bounce by giggling, screaming.
rod came on the cherry of my cigar. dick came on rod's wrist. pleasure came on beer's beard.
he shook his head and slurped his beer. broomstick came in pleasure's face. we stumbled down
the railroad bellowing with laughter, coughing, cursing, and i puffing on my weed cigar, laced
with crack. it began to rain. i was home. my window was open.
spring was like a pulsating vagina
opening up. it enraged me. i was to take another trip soon.

To the top of this page