In the Shadow of the American Dream by David Wojnarowicz Page B

has to be felt in the blood ’cause in that I have no choice … we arrive home in Hauteville la fuichard and stop in Mesnil la vigot grocery and gas station for supplies and rush on home and light a fire and there’s letters waiting from Janine Vega/Charlie Plymell/Alex Rodriguez/Harold Biddle … the letters are beautiful so fuckin’ great they warm an already warmed heart and Alex makes me wanna cry for the New York scenes and Charlie thrills me with his genuine talk of my manuscript having shown it to Anne Waldman and in the process of putting me in contact with German publishers for maybe my prose and he seems to enjoy my letters and look forward to ’em and then Janine with her fuckin’ beautiful heart-talk of her life and sense of it and things that correlate to things I feel and don’t articulate and a great poem and talk of Dennis and his lover and good commonheart sense and Harold dear Harold with his sensitive eye and heart and need for contact like all of us saying he might now go to hairdressing school ’cause bookies closed up and he’s working on stories to send out to mags having not written too much before and I’m glad things have taken on perspective for him … he’s going to school for high school diploma and it’s weary-sad but I love him for his senses …
    I let Jean-Pierre read Janine’s letter he gets stuck on the slang and purposefully misspelled words, which I try to explain to him as an earthy quality and a communication removed from the bourgeois social structure, language of the street and the working class, language of the heart moving out to communicate with someone in the distance … he has difficulty understanding the letter anyway and gives up on it after a page but that’s okay ’cause someday I’ll speak français well enough to translate for him the deliriously beautiful content of these messages across the waters … we take a tumble on the couch and get sweaty but break it off for a long walk before sunset to the soccer field scene of glorious desperate fantasies and down into the town past the three guerrillas on the hillside rusted and popping in the elements past the gas station where the ragged little mutt yaps and squeals at us and further down around the church of that town to where a bridge crosses a stream and in the distance is green green long grass fields … Jean-Pierre says, Valleys, and Yes it is … with great forlorn cows dotting the lines of hills and meadows and small tucked farmhouses and low rolling traces of mist and sun breaking through clouds illuminating like the colored plates of magic books and we turn to this fenced-in area by the bridge with a very weary watchdog who calmly walks over to the fence, just doing my duty folks never you pay me no mind but don’t be foolish enough to try and take my fish ’cause he’s guarding a trout breeding pool where there’s incredible high leaps of fish into the air and underwater scurrying movement of the whole load of them fighting for drifting insects and we walk all the way back up the long steep hill tossing a green apple back and forth in leaps and bounds …
    We stopped on the road to ask the price of fresh-killed chicken and agreed to return and buy one in an hour after the farmer’s wife kills and cleans it for us and we head home to clean veggies and drink coffee and talk and I try to explain my manuscript to him, my life and senses in a series of words and scenes and contacts and interests that takes very little time and is compact full of truths and revelations and for that I am glad for wherever this goes it will at least go openhearted …
    We rush out after two hours of lolling around and talking and realize we’re late for the blasted chicken and we roll down the road the air so damn crisp it frosts the windows and freezes the vision and we’re alternately wiping and rubbing the windows and