anonymous calls at three o-clock in the morning, a voice corroded by drink, the sound

of a rasp: write goodman, write as if your life depended on it.

increasingly desperate, the voice takes on a stentorian tone, begins to curdle.

lipstick messages on my mirror, illegal entry into my apartment, mis-matched hairs stuck to my pillow, dismebowelled pets, recently voided syringes still wet tipped with blood.

 My favorite armchair still warm and dented with someones ass and worse still, pictures of a goldfish pasted onto my television.

find myself on rocking on my knees in the early morning desperate, considerations of hiring the fifteen year old crack head as a bodyguard, his face working over his pipe like a piece of brown clay thrown from a moving car, what kind of christin fruitcake is this? its a sign of the times I yell at the policeman when a man isnt safe in his own home.

the cops think its amusing, but you wont find it so firkin amusing when you find me with a length of towel tied around my neck will you you pig, yes officer, im sympathetic to your [fucking] caseload but I feel like my life is in danger [you fucking cocksucker.]

I can imagine the bastard hunched over the typewriter bashing at his head with his hands,

running to the refrigerator to look over his collection of snotty, rheumy heads and thinking he needs to add one more to make a set

i smash the phone against the wall ..a piece of plastic breaks off and cuts my cheek and then im worse off swinging the telephone through the front window and showering that tit from nextdoor with glass.

 mental note: buy a rack of butchers knives and slot them under my bed for easy access

yesterday someone  filled my apartment with flowers, the whole place stinks of pollen, the spermatazoa of the plant kingdom.

ii

milton the crackhead rambles like an old italian back alley.. tucked behind the ruined facade of his head.. desperate for a little rock.. when i slap the icepick into his swollen fingers he's ready to do business..

watch my apartment my little crack-headed hawk.. get this fella.. and i'll keep you in business..

 i  reach an arm around him, envision if you will a future with mr q.  folded over the sidewalk looking up at a handle sticking in his head.

his brain cells are filled with smoke..

I could be the rock upon which you build your house milton..

iii

this'd be my first week off in six years. renting out the apartment across the street with a snipers view of my house. laying in for food and cigarettes. aluminum bat.

as i pace the floor i'm thinking hard, running through the list.. eliminating the unlikely candidates.. who the fuck'd be jealous enough to ruin a man's life with allus random shite..

who would stand to gain by filling the bathroom with party balloons?  what would they gain? I swing at an invisible baseball, imagine it knocked straight up through the clouds.