I am out and about on my dirt bike taking photographs of American suburbs. They are so utterly bizarre to me. It’s a different planet out there. I have never lived in one. My many enemies will scream blood that since I have never lived in a suburb, I do not qualify. The suburb is a sabotage. Americans have no access to their humanity. I have argued many times that Americans have no humanity. As an outsider, it’s interesting because what is sacred to the suburbs is anonymity. You live like your generic friends live. You shit like your generic friends shit. Religion lives in your generic Chuck E Cheese throat where the religion of the awful tastes like cardboard. America’s Actual Religon IS Chuck E Cheese. Gag on that.

I was asked to respond to a particular article in the New York Times. Thusly, there was correspondence between me and the NYT. I did, indeed, want to respond to a piece on drug legalization in American life.

But no.

It’s not that they are kicking me out again.

What they did was publish the correspondence.

Why. The correspondence.

DRUMMER did this to me when I left San Francisco for a year on Lake Michigan. They published all of my correspondence with writers, editors, publishers, and a lunch delivery company who used to bring sandwiches to my office. The lot of it. Why would you publish a writer’s cprrespondence. The also published within the context of my correspondence, the correspondence regarding payments to writers, how much I could pay them, when I could pay them, and why I liked their work (I lied), and how much it was worth (I lied again). It was my JOB to lie.

This was publishing.

None of it was meant to go public.

But the New York Times thought it would be more fun to publish my correspondence than my work. Literary Entropy is Real.

People spit in my face whenever I talk about or write about publishing. Warning. Beware. Be very careful about what you write. Like me.

And be very careful about what you wish for.

I am a communist. All drugs should be legal, available, and free. There are two kinds of Americans. Suits. And suits. The suits see Other People doing drugs, and they flip out because they don’t have the guts to hit the street. I lived there. There were showers at the beach. There was food at Glide. Free clothes at the stinking clothes shop. Often, you feel pulled forcefully into sex work.  Nothing, in fact, is free. We all know that. I am one of those communists who think that free drugs would calm the clown car down. We should be able to buy drugs at vending machines. Antibiotics. Needles. Mars Bars antiretrovirals, and combs. The good news is that Bic has put colorful designs on lighters. I am not one of those Happy People with a Happy Meal. When I say fentanyl, I mean death. I was homeless because my employer (Public School) fired everyone by noon on the same day. Nothing to be done. If you need a clean place to do your drugs, there’s the back of the library where Bukowski lives. No sarcasm. I am trying (hard) not to get kicked off Comments, but it’s difficult when people refuse to recognize the specter of death in this which is why the numbers get bogus after you hit half a million people a year still dying with a virus or without a virus. Switch your paradigm to psilocybin, ayahuasca, iboga, mescaline. There were an estimated 27 million people who suffered from opioid use disorders in 2020. There are three kinds of Americans. The addicted. The not addicted. And suits.