I was born, I lived, I died, I’m back.
Writing to you from the great beyond. Believe it as you believe anything that the man has to tell you, your Uncle Bill won’t turn you wrong. Why was I here to begin with. I was here to go. We’re all here to go. Earth’s a great big space station flying through space waiting to be spilled forth, knocked asunder on its axis so that we’ll all go. I was here to go and now I’m back.
Channeling, flying, gliding like a cat gently pawing at the leaves of on old Gardenia bush out behind the house. Old Calico Jane, Ruski, and Spooner running with me. It beats the best junk high I ever had and without the junk sick to go with it. Great metal chimneys spew smoke into the air, gray clouds bringing down the tuberculosis on old junkies like the Priest. I’m right there with it, cutting up, as always.
Big Bull Lee, they called me once. Still a bull, I stomped through the china shop of the world, or life, or whatever once passed for some semblance of living. Blood flowing in great gushes through my veins filled with junk, my cells used to beg and plead with junk sickness, needing the junk. Even the regular dose of methadone, Nazi serum easing the H addicts for decades, one thing they did do right, isn’t enough to hold them over.
I was born, St. Louis blues, in the midst of the first world war. Pre-nazi Germans fighting smooth faced beautiful boys that are gassed, fall, and writhe in painful pantomime of the facial neuralgia I never had and always had for any croaker willing. Blood on the streets and roaming dogs in heat.
God makes problems to see what we can stand. Creating friction and sucking energy through the penis of the world to keep his one god universe afloat even though he knows he’s just polishing brass on the Titanic.
I was born in 1914 in a solid brick house. Add this shit together, Mr. Burroughs.
