He speaks twice tonight

//The two Negro's on the metro turn to a young white broad:

Charlie Parker, wouldn't play another note, if they were to let him kill ten whites. //

If I were to draw a self-portrait, preferably with black ink, and a steady hand, YOU would throw up your hands and declare it the physical manifestation of a depraved mind. 

You would throw me glances of distaste, as I lay on your couch, precariously vulturing on my existence and half a dozen others. Stupendously unstable, and prone to convulsive, abrupt eruptions of laughter and melancholic troughs, unheard of in your circles. 

Yet here I am, at your doorstep. Both of us neurotic and suspicious. 

Let me in, I bring company. We'll feast on pictures of old, saturate ourselves in droning guitars and maybe venture out into the night. 

Ancaster via Toronto--