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they too felt somehow defeated and

diminished.

they complained about the change in Tarzan

doped and drugged in his room

and they knew he would soon die like that

and then he did

and then he was back in that other jungle

(to where we will all someday retire)

unleashing the joyful primal call they could no longer

hear.

there were some small notices in the

newspapers

and the paint continued to chip from the hospital

walls,

many plants died, there was an unfortunate

suicide,

a growing lack of trust and

hope, and

a pervasive sadness:

it wasn’t so much Tarzan’s death the others mourned,

it was the cold, willful attitude of the

young and powerful doctors

despite the wishes of the

helpless old.

and finally they knew the truth

while sitting in their rooms

that it wasn’t only the attitude of the doctors

they had to fear,

and that as silly as all those Tarzan films had been,

and as much as they would miss their own lost

Tarzan,

that all that was much kinder than the final vigil

they would now have to sit and patiently endure

alone.

something about a woman

ah, Merryman,

a fighter on the docks,

killed a man while they were unloading

bananas.

I mean the man he killed

clubbed him first

from behind

with an anchor chain

(something about a woman)

and we all circled around

while

Merryman

did him in

under a hard-on sun,

finally strangling him to death

throwing him into the

ocean.

Merryman leaped to the dock

and walked

away, nobody tried to stop

him.

then we went back to work and

unloaded the rest of the bananas.

nothing was ever said about the murder

between any of us

and I never saw anything about it

in the papers.

although I saw some of the bananas

later in the

markets:

2 lbs. for a quarter

they seemed a

bargain.

(uncollected)

Sunday lunch at the Holy Mission

he got knifed in broad daylight, came up the street

holding his hands over his gut, dripping red

on the pavement.

nobody waiting in line left their place to help him.

he made it to the Mission doorway, collapsed in the

lobby where the desk clerk screamed, “hey, you

son-of-a-bitch, what are you doing?”

then he called an ambulance but the man was dead

when they got there.

the police came and circled the spots of blood

on the pavement

with white chalk

photographed everything

then asked the men waiting for their Sunday meal

if they had seen anything

if they knew anything.

they all said “no” to both.

while the police strutted in their uniforms

the others finally loaded the body into an ambulance.

afterwards the homeless men rolled cigarettes

as they waited for their meal

talking about the action

blowing farts and smoke

enjoying the sun

feeling quite like

celebrities.

trashcan lives

the wind blows hard to night

and it’s a cold wind

and I think about

the boys on the row.

I hope some of them have a bottle

of red.

it’s when you’re on the row

that you notice that

everything

is owned

and that there are locks on

everything.

this is the way a democracy

works:

you get what you can,

try to keep that

and add to it

if possible.

this is the way a dictatorship

works too

only they either enslave or

destroy their

derelicts.

we just forget

ours.

in either case

it’s a hard

cold

wind.

school days

I’m in bed.

it’s morning

and I hear:

where are your socks?

please get dressed!

why does it take you so long to

get dressed?

where’s the brush?

all right, I’ll give you a head

band!

what time is it?

where’s the clock?

where did you put the clock?

aren’t you dressed yet?

where’s the brush?

where’s your sandwich?

did you make a sandwich?

I’ll make your sandwich.

honey and peanut butter.

and an orange.

there.

where’s the brush?

I’ll use a comb.

all right, holler. you lost the brush!

where did you lose the brush?

all right. now isn’t that better?

where’s your coat?

go find your coat.

your coat has to be around somewhere!

listen, what are you doing?

what are you playing with?