Anyway, from his letter, the Franklyn thing really got to him. I did not buy a copy to look up my burial and demise. let the dogs worry each other. I’ve got things to do like sleep, and pick hardened snot from my nostrils, and say like now—watch this thing dressed in grey pants and she has spider legs and yet an ass like a washtub, she walks past this window and my limp pecker twitches as bellies full of worms in paradise sing out of birds in this warm Los Angeles evening.
