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and bought a new silver Camaro

she works afternoons in a dance joint

drives 30 miles to the job from

Redondo Beach

goes to night school

helps out at the AIDS clinic

reads the I Ching

does Yoga

is living with a 20-year-old boy

eats health food

Barney wasn’t good for her

she’s got her shit together now

she’s into T.M.

but she’s the same old fun-loving Cleo

she’s painted her nails green

got a butterfly tattoo

I saw her yesterday

in her new silver Camaro

her long blonde hair blowing

in the wind.

poor Barney.

he just doesn’t know what he’s

missing.

the simple truth

you just don’t know how to do it,

you know that,

and you can’t do a lot of other

useful things either.

it’s the fault of the

way you were raised,

some of it,

and you’ll never learn now,

it’s too late.

you just can’t do certain things.

I could show you how to do them

but you still wouldn’t do them

right.

I learned how to do a lot of necessary things

when I was a little girl

and I can still do them now.

I had good parents but

your parents never gave you enough

attention or love

so you never learned how to do

certain simple things.

I know it’s not your fault but

I think you should be aware of how

limited you are.

here, let me do that!

now watch me!

see how easy it is!

take your time!

you have no patience!

now look at you!

you’re mad, aren’t you?

I can tell.

you think I can’t tell?

I’m going downstairs now,

my favorite tv program is coming

on.

and don’t be mad because

I tell you the simple truth about

yourself.

do you want anything from

downstairs?

a snack?

no?

are you sure?

gold in your eye

I got into my BMW and drove down to my bank to

pick up my American Express Gold Card.

I told the girl at the desk what I

wanted.

“you’re Mr. Chinaski,” she

said.

“yes, you want some

i.d.?”

“oh no, we know you…”

I slipped the card into my wallet

went back to parking

got into the BMW (paid for, straight

cash)

and decided to drive down to the liquor store

for a case of fine

wine.

on the way, I further decided to write a poem

about the whole thing: the BMW, the bank, the

Gold Card

just to piss off the

critics

the writers

the readers

who much preferred the old poems about me

sleeping on park benches while

freezing and dying of cheap wine and

malnutrition.

this poem is for those who think that

a man can only be a creative

genius

at the very

edge

even though they never had the

guts to

try it.

a great writer

a great writer remains in bed

shades down

doesn’t want to see anyone

doesn’t want to write anymore

doesn’t want to try anymore;

the editors and publishers wonder:

some say he’s insane

some say he’s dead;

his wife now answers all the mail:

“….e does not wish to…”

and some others even walk up and down

outside his house,

look at the pulled-down

shades;

some even go up and ring the

bell.

nobody answers.

the great writer does not want to be

disturbed. perhaps the great writer is not

in? perhaps the great writer has gone

away?

but they all want to know the truth,

to hear his voice, to be told some good

reason for it all.

if he has a reason

he does not reveal it.

perhaps there isn’t any

reason?

strange and disturbing arrangements are

made; his books and paintings are quietly

auctioned off;

no new work has appeared now for

years.

yet his public won’t accept his

silence—

if he is dead

they want to know; if he is

insane they want to know; if he has a

reason, please tell us!

they walk past his house

write letters

ring the bell

they cannot understand and will not

accept

the way things are.

I rather like

it.

the smoking car

they stop out front here

it looks as if the car is on fire

the smoke blazes blue from the hood and exhaust

the motor sounds like cannon shots

the car humps wildly

one guy gets out,

Jesus, he says, he takes a long drink from a

canvas water bag

and gives the car an eerie look.

the other guy gets out and looks