FIRST LINE FROM MERTON'S ASIAN JOURNAL FOR JAMES FOLEY

I have not yet seen the cathedral, which is probably confusing rather than evident.
The university rector with the husky eyes I saw in the corridor between Times Square and Port Authority.
I had really wanted to see that professor that told us to embrace our hate like a lice covered baby.
Part of this is I know how much Merton stewarded you through that morality spell you passed through halfway through the writer factory.
The other part is infidel gadzookery, serial bus cosmicosmics, and knee-jerk ribbing pustule consulate, a sort of foreign service officer of the heart.
Did we or did we not go to his quaint ashram and drape mary one all over the lingams?
And who the fuck was I to get my alien husbandry degree from a coffer of empanadas?
Let me tell you who you were. You were taut laundry, a hanky with gumption
on the prowl for the perennials were exploding their bottom switches.
The wattage of bar music in yellow light from the fly trap ply.
I spent all my quarters in beat-up pool tables, and you, you we had to entice from the rafters.