Not I, said the agoraphobic, probably anarchist, definitely Marxist, poet—but this other man: terrified his landlords will bust down the door—any minute now—or while he’s sleeping—drag his wife out by her hair—rape her—then kick him in his ribs—Again?! You want more, you pathetic fuck?—until he’s spitting blood—until they’re both—he and his wife—clutching each other, sobbing—I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you—until finally the landlords leave them for dead—until finally the landlords leave them curled on the professionally landscaped lawn—until finally the landlords just leave them to bleed out—and burn all their fucking books, while you’re at it—as the new tenants move their leather furniture into the remodeled garden apartment, turn on American Idol, and go to sleep. That’ll teach them to be born poor in the United States of America, the landlords oily sneer. Those stupid motherfuckers.
Charles Bivona is not easy to live with. I know. Love.
Edit the book!! =)