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sometimes I lost one hundred dollars at the

racetrack. we watched tv in bed and later

that night I couldn’t come. I think it was

because I was thinking about that marble table.

I’m sure it was. I don’t have any antique marble

tables at my place, I almost never have any sex trouble at

my place. sometimes but

very seldom.

I don’t understand the whole antique

business

I’m sure it’s a giant

con.

the beautiful young girl walking past the graveyard—

I stop my car at the signal

I see her walking past the graveyard—

as she walks past the iron fence

I can see through the iron fence

and I see the headstones

and the green lawn.

her body moves in front of the iron fence

the headstones do not move.

I think,

doesn’t anybody else see this?

I think,

does she see those headstones?

if she does

she has wisdom that I don’t have

for she appears to ignore them.

her body moving in its

magic fluid

and her long hair is lighted

by the 3 p.m. sun.

the signal changes

she crosses the street to the west

I drive west.

I drive my car down to the ocean

get out

and run up and down

in front of the sea for 35 minutes

seeing people here and there

with eyes and ears and toes

and various other parts.

nobody seems to care.

beer

I don’t know how many bottles of beer

I have consumed while waiting for things

to get better.

I don’t know how much wine and whiskey

and beer

mostly beer

I have consumed after

splits with women—

waiting for the phone to ring

waiting for the sound of footsteps,

and the phone never rings

until much later

and the footsteps never arrive

until much later.

when my stomach is coming up

out of my mouth

they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:

“what the hell have you done to yourself?

it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!”

the female is durable

she lives seven and one half years longer

than the male, and she drinks very little beer

because she knows it’s bad for the

figure.

while we are going mad

they are out

dancing and laughing

with horny cowboys.

well, there’s beer

sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles

and when you pick one up

the bottles fall through the wet bottom

of the paper sack

rolling

clanking

spilling grey wet ash

and stale beer,

or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.

in the morning

making the only sound in your life.

beer

rivers and seas of beer

beer beer beer

the radio singing love songs

as the phone remains silent

and the walls stand

straight up and down

and beer is all there is.

artist

all of a sudden I’m a painter.

a girl from Galveston gives me

$50 for a painting of a man

holding a candycane while

floating in a darkened sky.

than a young man with a black beard

comes over

and I sell him three for $80.

he likes rugged stuff

where I write across the painting—

“shoot shit” or “GRATE ART IS

HORSESHIT, BUY TACOS.”

I can do a painting in 5 minutes.

I use acrylics, paint right out of

the tube.

I do the left side of the painting

first with my left hand and then

finish the right side with my

right hand.

now the man with the black beard

comes back with a friend whose hair

sticks out and they have a young blonde

girl with them.

black beard is still a sucker:

I sell him a hunk of shit—

an orange dog with the word

“DOG” written on his side.

stick-out hair wants 3 paintings

for which I ask $70.

he doesn’t have the money.

I keep the paintings but

he promises to send me a

girl called Judy

in garter belt and high heels.

he’s already told her about me:

“a world-renowned writer,” he said

and she said, “oh no!” and pulled

her dress up over her head.

“I want that,” I told him.

then we haggled over terms

I wanted to fuck her first

then get head later.

“how about head first and

fuck later?” he asked.

“that doesn’t work,” I

said.

so we agreed:

Judy will come by and

afterwards

I will hand her the

3 paintings.

so there we are:

back to the barter system,

the only way to beat

inflation.

never the less,

I’d like to

start the Men’s Liberation Movement:

I want a woman to hand