woman from Sacramento just phoned. she says she likes to hear my voice. wow wow. I’d sure like to help her. I’m told she’s a looker. writes me 2 or 3 letters a week. she also writes poetry. god damn just dropped a cigar ash on my only good pair of pants and before I could get the damn thing up I burned a hole in the pants, and a hole in the leg. but the pants, that’s what hurts. constant tragedy. ah, me. but these letters from Sacramento. little scrawls, tired: “it rained today. I cleaned the house. 2 poems accepted by X. one of them is about you.” I keep this gal going in a kind of haywire way, and it’s kind of sloppy and bites me in the back of the neck, but I try to remain the fucked-up human I am. everybody needs help and I like to help them: especially good-lookers with sexy voices who have read more than the morning paper. luckily for me, she’s married, has children, and is probably disillusioned with her husband because he does not have fits, does not brood in the closet. a lot of guys marry these gals with poetic backgrounds because they think they are getting a chance at class, when all they are really getting is a pain in the ass. I have spoken. then too, these poetic bitches with looks always (almost always, I have found by my experiences) marry money-makers and then WONDER WHY MONEY-MAKERS ARE SUCH DULL STUPID PRICKS WHEN THEY ARE JUST SITTING AROUND NOT MAKING MONEY. so both sides are disillusioned, and the bitch sits around looking at her husband and ends up trying to write a novel on character-disintegration (his, of course!). in fact, I got a letter from my x-wife who writes me every Christmas, and she said she is going to write TWO novels on character-disintegration. mine, I suppose, and her present husband’s. now, if she could write about hers…twice…she wouldn’t have any classics, but maybe a couple of best sellers.

(this quick letter to tell you I am sorry I called you your daughter in 1944. in 1967.)