Need you now, like I needed you then

(you always said, we'd still be friends)



right now everything depends upon remembering the name of my fourth grade english teacher. the fat as a house one with the out of fashion 70s make you wanna barf floral print housedresses and dyke black rimmed glasses and greasy brown hair parted down the middle like mama cass. i keep getting confused with the name of my tenth grade english teacher--mrs. juhasz. she was also huge. we called her ju-horse, but that fact's just getting in the way as i try to remember. it's extraneous, party people. the fourth grade teacher made the entire class memorize robert frost's "stopping by the woods on a snowy evening" and recite it, one by one, standing beside our desk. it was nerve wracking to be sure, none of us wanted to do it, me least of all. but as i read the poem, i found it easy to commit whole chunks of it immediatly to memory. it was the first poetry in which i understood all the words, with the exeption of haiku. it was written normally, with normal words, so i could actually picture someone having those thoughts.

when it was my turn, i stood up and stared at the ceiling and the words rolled out of my mouth like they'd been made there.

(and miles to go before i sleep, and miles to go before i sleep)

when i was finished, yorkie bobbed his flattop in approval

"ain't no half-steppin," he said.

now i want to say thank you to mrs. what's-her-name.

(is it possible that she got married in the middle of the year and changed her name? you never know. some of the fattest bitches get theres.)

nine yrs old. that was also the year i first heard OMD.

the year before that was "roxanne, roxanne"

i've been running around the tube, with my 80 dollar italian ballpoint pen, writing whatever shit i think of on whatever paper i can find. movie ads, service line advisories, fuckin flattened candy wrappers...i'll tell you it's like the old days, drawing an outline of my sperm trademark with just the leather holder for my pen in my side pocket. no drugs, no cash, no worries. the pen writes so beautifully, the line of ink so perfect and thin...i wrote the word "radio" on my hand and it looked like a tattoo.

i don't know where the fuzz is, england will always be a severely foreign country to me, no matter how much i figure out about it.

they could be anywhere, at any time. even that old lady with the white patent leather handbag, raising one eyebrow and my impishness. she could be one, readying to lash out her "long arm". fuck, maybe she could run.

(feet stop working, i'm having too much fun)

nas always has an effect on invisible eyes. i flatten myself against the shaking train wall and start to write across the latest television disaster:

life's a bitch and then you die
that's why we get high
cuz you never know
when you're gonna go

fuck everyone.

go nets.

drunken call