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• Classic-Fiction

I’ve barricaded the doors and windows, have bottled water, canned

food, candles, tools, rope, bandages, toothpicks, catnip,

mousetraps, reading material, toilet paper, blankets, firearms,

mirrors, knives

—cigarettes, cigars, candy—

memories, regrets, my birth certificate,

photographs of

picnics

parades

invasions;

I have roach spray, fine French wine, paper clips and last year’s

calendar because

THIS COULD BE MY LAST POEM.

it could happen and, of course, I’ve considered and

reconsidered

death

but I haven’t yet come up with how, which makes me feel

rather foolish about everything,

especially now.

—just waiting is the worst.

nothing worse than waiting

just waiting. always hated to

wait. what’s there about waiting that’s so

intolerable?

—like you’re waiting for me to finish this

poem and

I don’t know exactly

how

so I won’t.

—so, if you happen to read this

in a magazine or a book

just

rip the page out

tear it up

and that’s the graceful way

to end this poem

once and for

all.

I have continued regardless

almost ever since I began writing

decades ago

I have been dogged by

whisperers and gossips

who have proclaimed

daily

weekly

yearly

that

I can’t write anymore

that now

I slip

and fall.

when I first began

there was much complaining about

the content of my

poems and stories.

“who cares about the low life of a

drunken bum?

is that all he can write about,

whores and puking?”

and now

their complaint is:

“who cares about the life of a

rich

bum?

why doesn’t he write about whores

and puking

anymore?”

the Academics consider me

too raw

and I haven’t consorted with most of the

others.

the few people I know well have nothing to do

with poetry.

there has also been envy-hatred

on the part of

some fellow writers

but I consider this

one of my finest

accomplishments.

when I first began this dangerous

game

I predicted that these

very things would

occur.

let them all rail:

if it wasn’t me,

it would just be someone

else.

these

gossips and complainers,

what have they accomplished

anyway?

never having risen

they

can neither

slip nor

fall.

balloons

I saw too many faces today

faces like balloons.

at times I felt like

lifting the skin

and asking,

“anybody under there?”

there are medical terms for

fear of height

for

fear of

enclosed spaces.

there are medical terms for

any number of

maladies

so

there must be a medical term

for:

“too many people.”

I’ve been stricken with

this malady

all my life:

there has always been

“too many people.”

I saw too many faces

today, hundreds of

them

with eyes, ears, lips,

mouths, chins and so

forth

and

I’ve been alone

for several hours

now

and

I feel that I am

recovering.

which is the good part

but the problem

remains

that I know I’m going to

have to go out there

among them

again.

moving toward the dark

if we can’t find the courage to go on,

what will we do?

what should we do?

what would you do?

if we can’t find the courage to go on,

then

what day

what minute

in what year

did we go

wrong?

or was it an accumulation of all the

years?

I have some answers.

to die, yes.

to go mad, maybe.

or perhaps to

gamble everything away?

if we can’t find the courage to go on,

what should we do?

what did all the others

do?

they went on

living their lives,

badly.

we’ll do the same,

probably.

living too long

takes more than

time.

the real thing

yes, I know that you think

I am wrong

but

I know what is right for me

and what

is not.

may I tell you my

dream?

I am surrounded by

thick cement walls,

I am dressed in a red

robe

and I am sitting at an

organ.

there is

not a

sound.

I begin to play the

organ.

the hiss of the notes

is sharp and soft

at the same

time.

it is a slightly bitter

music

but among the dark notes

there are flashes of light and

laughter.

as I play,

the incomprehensible mystery

of the past

and of the present

becomes

comprehensible.

and best of all,

as I play,