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the fingers

the hair

the smell

the light.

one would like to be strong enough

to turn them away

those butterflies.

I believe in earning one’s own way

but I also believe in the unexpected gift.

I have no shame.

we deserve one

another

those butterflies

who flutter to my tiny

flame

and

me.

the great escape

listen, he said, you ever seen a bunch of crabs in a

bucket?

no, I told him.

well, what happens is that now and then one crab

will climb up on top of the others

and begin to climb toward the top of the bucket,

then, just as he’s about to escape

another crab grabs him and pulls him back

down.

really? I asked.

really, he said, and this job is just like that, none

of the others want anybody to get out of

here. that’s just the way it is

in the postal ser vice!

I believe you, I said.

just then the supervisor walked up and said,

you fellows were talking.

there is no talking allowed on this

job.

I had been there eleven and one-half

years.

I got up off my stool and climbed right up the

supervisor

and then I reached up and pulled myself right

out of there.

it was so easy it was unbelievable.

but none of the others followed me.

and after that, whenever I had crab legs

I thought about that place.

I must have thought about that place

maybe 5 or 6 times

before I switched to lobster.

my friend William

my friend William is a fortunate man:

he lacks the imagination to suffer

he kept his first job

his first wife

can drive a car 50,000 miles

without a brake job

he dances like a swan

and has the prettiest blankest eyes

this side of El Paso

his garden is a paradise

the heels of his shoes are always level

and his handshake is firm

people love him

when my friend William dies

it will hardly be from madness or cancer

he’ll walk right past the de vil

and into heaven

you’ll see him at the party to night

grinning

over his martini

blissful and delightful

as some guy

fucks his wife in the

bathroom.

safe

the house next door makes me

sad.

both man and wife rise early and

go to work.

they arrive home in early evening.

they have a young boy and a girl.

by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house

are out.

the next morning both man and

wife rise early again and go to

work.

they return in early evening.

by 9 p.m. all the lights are

out.

the house next door makes me

sad.

the people are nice people, I

like them.

but I feel them drowning.

and I can’t save them.

they are surviving.

they are not

homeless.

but the price is

terrible.

sometimes during the day

I will look at the house

and the house will look at

me

and the house will

weep, yes, it does, I

feel it.

the house is sad for the people living

there

and I am too

and we look at each other

and cars go up and down the

street,

boats cross the harbor

and the tall palms poke

at the sky

and to night at 9 p.m.

the lights will go out,

and not only in that

house

and not only in this

city.

safe lives hiding,

almost

stopped,

the breathing of

bodies and little

else.

starve, go mad, or kill yourself

I’m not going to die

easy;

I’ve sat on your suicide beds

in some of the worst

holes in America,

penniless and mad I’ve been,

I mean, insane, you know;

big tears, each one the size of your bastard hearts,

flowing down,

roaches crawling into my shoes,

one dirty 40-watt lightbulb overhead

and a room that smelled like piss;

while your rich

your falsely famous

laughed in safe stale places

far away,

you gave me a suicide bed and two choices,

no three:

starve, go mad, or kill yourself.

for now enjoy your trips to Paris where

you consort with great painters and dupes,

but I am getting ready for your eyes and your brain and

your dirty dishwater souls;

you men who have created a pigpen for millions

to choke soundlessly in—

from India to Los Angeles

from Paris to the tits of the Nile—

you’re fucked up

you rich you warty you insecure you pricky