Last I saw him he was heaving in an alley among scurrying rats after a Ramones concert at the old 9:30 Club in DC.
Last I saw him he was punching children in their solar plexus(es) while reciting lines from Genesis and asking for the body of Christ.
First I saw him he was dark purple, raging against the life into which he had just been brought by a surgeon’s scalpel.
First I saw him after his re-birth he was eating paper…pages out of a book he had handwritten in a fancy ink pen in the Rec Lounge of the facility to which he had been confined.
(in 1993 from an adjacent stall in the NBC building on North Capitol Street)
Listen baby, the problem is people don’t know how to purge anything anymore. Rage, anxiety, old photo albums…
(and then he flushed)
What remained of his flat, after he was done with it, were the un-bled radiators attached to the walls. They were dripping on the ripped out parquet floor tiles and hissing slowly, building up pressure within the pipes. I kneeled and released the valves slowly. The steam burned the skin on my thumb and forefinger. There were broken bits of his ancient Underwood scattered throughout the kitchen, and blood stains which were old and turning into rust spots on the walls. I found a note taped to the washroom mirror written in black, thin charcoal pencil: “Two parts tall tale, one part boring life. Mix vigorously with ample amount of ice cubes.”