LETTER FRAGMENT

I'm living at the Denman St. basement, the plastic container under the sink over flowed again this morning, it does that when you forget to empty it. I forget a lot of things these days. A month ago the ceiling in my bedroom started leaking, dripping from the bathroom upstairs, my mattress got soaked. The landlord doesn't give a shit, but he sent some guy over to 'fix it'. The rent here is $150 a month, the cheapest i know of in town.
we are not alone
we are not dead
i could be in kasa Tadla, Manzanares, Odessa, Penza, i could be with juliette
the constellations of moles on the human body are unfathomable , the face, the hands, the eyes, the words, the speech.
It is my third year in canada. My fridge is well stocked with cherries, strawberries, organic green and red peppers, broccoli, carrots, yogurt, apricots, bananas, and soya milk. Each morning we have lavish breakfasts, sitting outside in a single spotlight of sunshine.
Anna is Polish, she teaches me a new word every day, but I'm not a good pupil, my heart just isn't in it. We talk about Grotowski and the Polish Laboratory Theatre .
There are no gestures of a body, only gestures by a body, corporeal monologue of spirit itself.
I want to touch something old, that has roots, subterranean rhizomes that shoot off the veins, arteries and capillaries, that pulsates in the heart of things. Everything here is new, even the old is new. The fake British pubs make me sick.
We have become experts of waste management. I have not bought a pair of trousers, a shirt, a jacket, shoes, socks, I have a Yves Saint Laurent pinstriped suit, Christian Dior silk ties
we go dumpster diving to keep the fridge topped up
only in North America could i enjoy such voluptuous poverty