I keep accidentally
wandering into the Institute for Advanced Study. What I’m looking for is a
Place for the Retarded.
The weather outside is
frightful. Princeton is on intersession. Very few students on the main floor of
Firestone Library; guards and fewer librarians elsewhere. I am alone in a
Canadian poetry carrel on C floor. That’s the lowest level of the stacks.
I savor the Cahiers of
Paul Valery. “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” Holy shit! The dude
took a lot of notes. But I am lonely in
a gigantic empty building. Little old me and 3,500,000 books. Thank God for
free internet porn.
Not really. But an
idiot could sit here and peacefully watch the stuff and nobody would know.
I stopped loving Philadelphia.
Was it the 6 foot 2 inch drug-addled transvestite prostitute who used my alley
as her office? I moved here. I love New York but not the pigeons and roaches and mice and especially
the rats. I was in my rear parking lot this morning at 6:00 am and a rat-sized
rodent was hopping though the snow. Oh no, I thought, oh no. But it was a
bunny. They are crepuscular.