outpatient from inpatient from outpatient, and so on

andy pink, baret town, kansas —

undone by the patrick situation, i decided to check into st e and relax for a week, terribly boring, no white wine, no cigarettes, no porn, no coke zero, and no — bareback oral sex hipster thug porn. monday morning started the delusions, i suspected he placed two smokers outside of the store for me, and then i quickly started giving up and giving in and giving to — false directions to various streets, byways, highways, california avenues, and the like — my street is both this way, that way, up way, which way, toward me, away from you, into me, into you, and so on —

i took 30 haldol before i left the house for the er — i never liked that show — and st e's has the ridiculous gaul to refer to their home for little wanderers as the emergency *department* of all euphemisms, imagine a euphemism of ed for er, or even er for ed, which ever which way — fuck it — and then i slept in the e(r/d) for 12 hours before they booked me a room, with a view, overlooking the city that never sleeps, like me, and i pulled my j.crew cords down, under me, and slowly entered the johnny, just like he asked, just like she would want me to, and i slept cozy in the cold, overlooking the city that sleeps with me, and i slowly, dryly, gingerly, stroked him — and he smiled —

one thing they don't have in the locked fridge at the hospital: frozen penis parts.

i met dearest linda, from brockton — high heroin and better meth — and she asked me who i voted for and i said bernie and without a missed beat or a blown note or a blown guy — gave me: "classy."

cormack was sweet, he had some variant of educational disorder, but 19, he had the same j.crew issued vans that i recently purchased — though i walked in with j.crew issued new balance and those were reserved, elsewhere from me, and so i walked my 26 in my winter socks because laces are simply too tempting for those who want to wrap themselves around a tree — with shoe laces — : (

didn't change my meds, stabilized the lithium a bit, but the best med is always symbolization, write and paint and scream and write and paint and scream and write and paint and scream and — pant — and scream —

there was a beautiful tech there, couldn't have been more that 22, could see it on his chubbed out arms, lovely, stern face but soft, i spent my evenings trying desperately to be near him, he saw me nude, at moments, and explained the joys of transitional mental health housing. sounds like a nightmare, the kind of dream, in the cold, with the vista, in a darkened city, with a view, in reminds one of simply: boys.

there wasn't a lot of penis action there. i had hoped there would be a little dick to suck, or a popcicle in the fridge, but it was locked — fastened, all day, all night, open only for meal times, i found a few turkey sandwiches at the top, no one watching, no scale available, just me and turk in the jerk — i jerked, ate it, tried to throw it up, and then realized the perspeciacious words of michael williams: "what you throw up will always come back up again." and it's true — the remainders always return, there is no such thing as the ends of the remains of the day, clock in, settled out, and distribued equally among the day laborers. the day rises, the city looks a day older, and the pavement sinks, the penises overwhelm, and i return to the tree house with this buxom lad, 23, and his chubby arms and optimism about boston's experiment with mental health transitional housing —

for those, even if it included, as a list, you, i must say, transitional housing is the kind of racket that only a properly kenseyfied state welfare apparatus could possibly convince left-wing ding-hos of: this is our revolution.

one thing they haven't bottled into pill or capsule: penis straightjackets. leave it to modern western medicine to forget to bottle the best — for last, we can only hope —

lithium is the divinity for those who return from the deserts only to find themselves once again. where? — pink and williams schizoid fact sheet. good day, good luck, i don't give a fuck —

april in chicago is almost as breezy as boston on march 25 2016 —

andy p