June 24, 1993: Leah the obese teen runaway I'd sheltered 20 years before was now a gorgeous stripper

Thirty years ago today

            On Thursday I did my laundry. I went out and made photocopies of the group poem that I was calling The Alphabet Orgasm but later would name The Gumby Bible. I also made copies from my astrology book. A few days before that I had run into Leah who I'd known twenty years before when she was an obese little runaway who I let crash in my place with her friend and who burned a hole in my Hudson Bay blanket with her cigarette. A few days before this day I ran into her and she was not only no longer overweight but she was gorgeous and working as an exotic dancer. We'd exchanged numbers and on this day I called her but she gave me the brush off because she was busy moving. I then called Marie and got basically the same thing. I called Mike Copping at work but he said he wouldn't be coming to Mudds Cabaret that night. I did some darkroom work and left for Mudds at 22:00. I got to Mudds a little after 23:00 and nothing had started. I was the third reader on the open stage and it went well. I also read the Alphabet Orgasm from the previous week and got everyone to applaud themselves for having written it: 

Warm juicy mess, she loved it 

and again triggered the swamp sweet source 

blood red, all over my fries 

over all my fries, red, blood red, blood red

rendering me indescribably blue- 

bluish light of the flames that burned Joan 

o man, we're on the front line 

running past all the wrong signs 

Take me to a place, I'm looking for a place 

but which way at the fork? 

Nothing making sense, hell filling donut 

I am profound as a toad, smog-lipped crumpet

hanging human, the sticky retracting cock 

I'm too much of a voyeur to commit suicide 

I do not wish to hang vasected 

I wish to hang tongue-tied by my words 

sanctimonious, indulgent shit--help keep it alive!! 

Crying alone, clutching my bloodied fries... 

Stop! You're making me want to scream! 

A clean shaven nightmare is good as a dream 

it takes so much longer to grow it back afterwards though 

Begun again, he's scraping it off the dream 

scraggling about the abode with flow

yeah, and it's all here when the symbols are shattered? 

To dream a dream of death alone 

tacky, tacky, tacky, tack, tack, talk-talk 

oh yeah, oh yeah, shake your booty! 

Do you walk to school, or do you take your lunch

to push down the throats of all readers' hope? 

I'd like to spread my body so it touches all angles of the Earth 

I'd like to take your body so it touches all the phallic symbols 

I'd like to take your body, take my body 

create the body everybody craves 

and loves and leaves for another 

What matters more or less? 

We begin again with another mess 

Let hope be born from endless chaos 

Isn't endless chaos a contradiction in terms? 

            There were a lot of readers. Tom Smarda was supposed to read eighth but he was forgotten until I reminded Martin.