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Hurry it up!”

but it was like a Mahler symphony—you just don’t

rush

it.

when I finished and she came back, there was

the bowl and the rag again

and we both laughed; then she kissed it

gently and

slowly, and I got up and put my clothes back on and

walked out—

“Jesus, buddy, what the hell were ya doin’ in

there?”

“Fuckin’,” I told the gentleman

and walked down the hall and down the steps and stood

outside in the road and lit one of those

sweet Mexican cigarettes in the moonlight.

liberated and human again

for a mere $3, I

loved the night, Mexico and

myself.

the souls of dead animals

after the slaughter house

there was a bar around the corner

and I sat in there

and watched the sun go down

through the window,

a window that overlooked a lot

full of tall dry weeds.

I never showered with the boys at the

plant

after work

so I smelled of sweat and

blood.

the smell of sweat lessens after a

while

but the blood-smell begins to fulminate

and gain power.

I smoked cigarettes and drank beer

until I felt good enough to

board the bus

with the souls of all those dead

animals riding with

me;

heads would turn slightly

women would rise and move away from

me.

when I got off the bus

I only had a block to walk

and one stairway up to my

room

where I’d turn on my radio and

light a cigarette

and nobody minded me

at all.

the tragedy of the leaves

I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,

the potted plants yellow as corn;

my woman was gone

and the empty bottles like bled corpses

surrounded me with their uselessness;

the sun was still good, though,

and my landlady’s note cracked in fine and

undemanding yellowness; what was needed now

was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester

with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd

because it exists, nothing more;

I shaved carefully with an old razor

the man who had once been young and

said to have genius; but

that’s the tragedy of the leaves,

the dead ferns, the dead plants;

and I walked into a dark hall

where the landlady stood

execrating and final,

sending me to hell,

waving her fat, sweaty arms

and screaming

screaming for rent

because the world had failed us

both.

the birds

the acute and terrible air hangs with murder

as summer birds mingle in the branches

and warble

and mystify the clamor of the mind;

an old parrot

who never talks,

sits thinking in a Chinese laundry,

disgruntled

forsaken

celibate;

there is red on his wing

where there should be green,

and between us

the recognition of

an immense and wasted life.

….y 2nd wife left me

because I set our birds free:

one yellow, with crippled wing

quickly going down and to the left,

cat-meat,

cackling like an organ;

and the other,

mean green,

of empty thimble head,

popping up like a rocket

high into the hollow sky,

disappearing like sour love

and yesterday’s desire

and leaving me

forever.

and when my wife

returned that night

with her bags and plans,

her tricks and shining greeds,

she found me

glittering over a yellow feather

seeking out the music

which she,

oddly,

failed to

hear.

the loner

16 and one-half inch

neck

68 years old

lifts weights

body like a young

boy (almost)

kept his head

shaved

and drank port wine

from half-gallon jugs

kept the chain on the

door

windows boarded

you had to give

a special knock

to get in

he had brass knucks

knives

clubs

guns

he had a chest like a

wrestler

never lost his

glasses

never swore

never looked for

trouble

never married after the death

of his only

wife

hated

cats

roaches

mice

humans

worked crossword

puzzles

kept up with the

news

that 16 and one-half inch

neck

for 68 he was

something

all those boards

across the windows

washed his own underwear

and socks

my friend Red took me up

to meet him

one night

we talked a while

together

then we left

Red asked, “what do you

think?”

I answered, “more