jjffjj

back in the day there was a guy and he carried his black and white comp books around in his backpack and he used uniball pens and listened to his yellow sports walkman

and

he would sit on the benches or under the trees in tompkins square park and watch slash smell the punk rockers 

and

he'd remember the girl who died the nite of the riot there death by taxicab and how an entire neighborhood cried becuz everyone knew her and the cops parked that big riot mobile there forever after that 

and 

sometimes he thought about how almost everyone around him was brown and he was so pale so fucking pale 

and 

he understood when they talked to him in spanish but he always answered in english becuz he didn't want them to laugh at his mispronunciations and inability to properly memorize the to be stuff

and 

he would sit there and write like i said and he didn't know how to submit to agents or publishers or magazines or anything but he knew how the words made him feel 

so fuckin alive man it can't be described

man

and 

he would sit there and he would write and he would go oh wow there's henry rollins oh wow there's iggy pop oh wow there's handsome dick 

true story.

anyway so he sat there and ate dollar slices and knishes and drank snapples and arizonas the year they came out and wondered why the knicks couldn't get a sidekick for ewing and he wrote

and wrote

and

i swear to god i wonder where that guy went.