More Moment With Bob

The massacre is known as the Asiatic vespers. It is suggested that this massacre was to insure loyalty, because all those cities who participated in the massacre couldn't switch sides for fear of Roman reprisal.

The connection I made to Creeley through disconcerting him lasted only a moment, but for me, those meeting of the minds are rare, and nearly an abstraction. Even today, this very small event in my life with a minor movement poet is a living embodiment in my psyche, just as Jerry is, and my resentment of my own infantile sensibility of that fact; not that it is constant, nor exotic, indeed, this is worship built upon earlier foundations with other authority figures whom I manipulated. I wanted to marry my high school history teacher, who was Italian, and he, dear fellow, made the mistake of getting personally involved with my family. Why? He saw my potential, and my damage, and tried to rescue me for the Ivy League. I obsessed over his elegance, his couture and style, the ability of his limpid eyes to emote, and this is where much of my glittering self-loathing comes from. I cannot break the Platonic ideal and settle for the horror of sexual intimacy with a man like Frank. I am not claiming exceptionalism, only that my investments in what and who I cannot have, this too, has left me an angel of vengeance being destroyed by compliance models that only have my best interests at heart.

I want to be fillet mignon, and at best, I am a tasty salisbury steak with an extended clitoris and pubic hair which refuses dainty arousal, only wearied by loss of lubrication, and dryness, which, should I actually meet some decent bastard who can read me, and figure I am not that bad, this late in season, will have to be addressed. I know what it is to fuck stupidly, and then fuck slightly better with borrowed husbands, but I have never had the wonder of loving abandon. Frank did try, but I hated him from the beginning, and that was my mistake, believing I could repress my scathing contempt for a stupid mestizo from the Bronx simply so I could flee my supervisor's revealing intimacy.

How I survived this without going my brother's route and injecting myself to death with PCP, I do not know what to deem it, an accomplishment?

I do not want a doctorate, not any more; yes, it places me at a disadvantage, but at this stage of the game, that degree of focus and concentration offers little immunity from heading toward, or warding off, the corrosion of irreversible, traumatic, decline.

To augment this seasonal garnish, "The Crow" was my own discovery, before the imprinting of my own idolatry; it was coincidence that Jerry studied with the Beat to whom I was most responsive, and ironically, in a submission I cannot remember, rejected my work, I think before I went to his reading, and subsequent lecture on a poet Alan Dugan, a man whom I've yet to expore.