• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

he got into his

car

and drove it

backwards

all the way to

the

grocery store

and back

again

backwards

the other motorists

screaming at

him

but he

made it

there and

back

without

incident

and without

being

stopped

by a patrol

car.

but he’s best

as the

Pope

and his

Latin

is very

good.

his works of

art

aren’t that

exceptional

but they allow him

to

survive

and to live with

a series of

19-year-old

wives

who

cut his hair

his toenails

bib

tuck and

feed

him.

he wears everybody

out

but

himself.

about the PEN conference

take a writer away from his typewriter

and all you have left

is

the sickness

which started him

typing

in the

beginning.

what a man I was

I shot off his left ear

then his right,

and then tore off his belt buckle

with hot lead,

and then

I shot off everything that counts

and when he bent over

to pick up his drawers

and his marbles

(poor critter)

I fixed it so he wouldn’t have

to straighten up

no more.

Ho Hum.

I went in for a fast snort

and one guy seemed

to be looking at me sideways,

and that’s how he died—

sideways,

lookin’ at me

and clutchin’

for his marbles.

Sight o’ blood made me kinda

hungry.

Had a ham sandwich.

Played a couple of sentimental songs…

Shot out all the lights

and strolled outside.

Didn’t seem to be no one around

so I shot my horse

(poor critter).

Then I saw the Sheerf

a standin’ at the end a’ the road

and he was shakin’

like he had the Saint Vitus’ dance;

it was a real sorrowful sight

so I slowed him to a quiver

with the first slug

and mercifully stiffened him

with the second.

Then I laid on my back awhile

and I shot out the stars one by one

and then

I shot out the moon

and then I walked around

and shot out every light

in town,

and pretty soon it began to get dark

real dark

the way I like it;

just can’t stand to sleep

with no light shinin’

on my face.

I laid down and dreamt

I was a little boy again

a playin’ with my toy six-shooter

and winnin’ all the marble games,

and when I woke up

my guns was gone

and I was all bound hand and foot

just like somebody

was scared a me

and they was slippin’

a noose around my ugly neck

just as if they

meant to hang me,

and some guy was pinnin’

a real pretty sign

on my shirt:

there’s a law for you

and a law for me

and a law that hangs

from the foot of a tree.

Well, pretty poetry always did

make my eyes water

and can you believe it

all the women was cryin’

and though they was moanin’

other men’s names

I just know they was cryin’

for me (poor critters)

and though I’d slept with all a them,

I’d forgotten

in all the big excitement

to tell ’em my name

and all the men looked angry

but I guess it was because the kids

was all being impolite

and a throwin’ tin cans at me,

but I told ’em not to worry

because their aim was bad anyhow

not a boy there looked like he’d turn

into a man—

90% homosexuals, the lot of them,

and some guy shouted

“let’s send him to hell!”

and with a jerk I was dancin’

my last dance,

but I swung out wide

and spit in the bartender’s eye

and stared down

into Nellie Adam’s breasts,

and my mouth watered again.

Scarlet

I’m glad when they arrive

and I’m glad when they leave

I’m glad when I hear their heels

approaching my door

and I’m glad when those heels

walk away

I’m glad to fuck

I’m glad to care

and I’m glad when it’s over

and

since it’s always either

starting or finishing

I’m glad

most of the time

and the cats walk up and down

and the earth spins around the sun

and the phone rings:

“this is Scarlet.”

“who?”

“Scarlet.”

“o.k., get it on over.”

and I hang up thinking

maybe this is it

go in

take a quick shit

shave

bathe

dress

dump the sacks

and cartons of empty

bottles

sit down to the sound of

heels approaching

more an army approaching than

victory

it’s Scarlet

and in my kitchen the faucet

keeps dripping

needs a