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damned imbecile pasty white

idiots with your starched shirts and your starched wives and, yes yes,

your starched lives,

get away get away

get away

go to Paris

while you can

while I let you.

the jolly damned man with the hoe (see Markham)

didn’t answer the call,

but your children will be raped and your pigs will be eaten

and the skies will burn black with crows and your cries,

as you answer for centuries of

unbearable indignity and bullshit.

you will be dealt with

we know you now

we’ve known you forever;

the might of the timorous

flies forth like a tremendous and ever beautiful swan,

no shit, friend,

look up look up look up look up

the jolly damned man with the hoe

is now flying over Milwaukee

grinning

more lovely than the sun

more graceful than all the ugly wounds

more real than you

or I or anything.

(uncollected)

the beautiful lady

we are gathered here now

to bury her in this

poem.

she did not marry an unemployed wino who

beat her every

night.

her several children will never wear

snot-stained shirts

or torn dresses.

the beautiful lady

simply

calmly

died.

and may the clean dirt of this poem

bury

her.

her and her womb

and her jewels

and her combs and her

poems

and her pale blue eyes

and her

grinning

rich

frightened

husband.

my life as a sitcom

stepped into the wrong end of the Jacuzzi and twisted my

right leg which was bad to begin with, then that night got drunk

with a tv writer and an actor, something about using my

life to make a sitcom and luckily that fell through and the next

day at the track I get a box seat in the dining area, get a

menu and a glass of water, my leg is really paining me, I

can barely walk to the betting window and back, then

about the 3rd race the waiter rushes by, asks, “can I

borrow your menu?” but he doesn’t wait for an answer,

he just grabs it and runs off.

a couple of races go by, I fight through my pain and continue to

make my bets, get back, sit down just as the waiter rushes by again.

he grabs all my silverware and my napkin and runs off.

“HEY!” I yell but he’s gone.

all around me people are eating, drinking and laughing.

I check my watch after the 6th race and it is 4:30 p.m.

I haven’t been served yet and I’m 72 years old with

a hangover and a leg from hell.

I pull myself to my feet by the edge of the table and manage

to hobble about looking for the maitre d’. I see him down

a far aisle and wave him in.

“can I speak to you?” I ask.

“certainly, sir!”

“look, it’s the 7th race, they took my menu and my silverware

and I haven’t been served yet.”

“we’ll take care of it right away, sir!”

well, the 7th race went, the 8th race went, and

still no ser vice.

I purchase my ticket for the 9th race and take the

escalator down.

on the first floor, I purchase a sandwich.

I eat it going down another escalator to the parking lot.

the valet laughs as I slowly work my leg into the

car, making a face of pain as I do so.

“got a gimpy leg there, huh, Hank?” he asks.

I pull out, make it to the boulevard and onto the

freeway which immediately begins to slow down because

of a 3-car crash ahead.

I snap on the radio in time to find that my horse

has run out in the 9th.

a flash of pain shoots up my right leg.

I decide to tell my wife about my

misfortunes at the track

even though I know she will respond

by telling me that everything as always

was completely my fault

but when a man is in pain he can’t think right,

he only asks for

more.

and

gets it.

who needs it?

see this poem?

it was

written without drinking.

I don’t need to drink

to write.

I can write without

drinking.

my wife says I can.

I say that maybe I can.

I’m not drinking

and I’m writing.

see this poem?

it was

written without drinking.

who needs a drink now?

probably the reader.

riots

I’ve watched this city burn twice

in my lifetime

and the most notable event

was the reaction of the

politicians in the

aftermath

as they

proclaimed the injustice of

the