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doorknob?

they become unalive

because they are unable to

pause

undo themselves

unkink

unsee

unlearn

roll clear.

listen to their untrue

laughter, then

walk

away.

I know you

you with long hair, legs crossed high, sitting at the end of

the bar, you like a butcher knife against my throat

as the nightingale sings elsewhere while laughter

mingles with the roach’s hiss.

I know you as

the piano player in the restaurant who plays badly,

his mouth a tiny cesspool and his eyes little wet rolls of

toilet paper.

you rode behind me on my bicycle as I pumped toward Venice as

a boy, I knew you were there, even in that brisk wind I smelled

your

breath.

I knew you in the love bed as you whispered lies of passion while

your

nails dug me into you.

I saw you adored by crowds in Spain while pigtail boys with

swords

colored the sun for your glory.

I saw you complete the circle of friend, enemy, celebrity and

stranger as the fox ran through the sun carrying its heart in its

mouth.

those madmen I fought in the back alleys of bars were

you.

you, yes, heard Plato’s last words.

not too many mornings ago I found my old cat in the yard,

dry tongue stuck out awry as if it had never belonged, eyes tangled,

eyelids soft yet, I lifted her, daylight shining upon my

fingers and her fur, my ignorant existence roaring against the

hedges and the flowers.

I know you, you wait while the fountains gush and the scales

weigh,

you tiresome daughter-of-a-bitch, come on in, the door is

open.

relentless as the tarantula

they’re not going to let you

sit at a front table

at some cafe in Europe

in the mid-afternoon sun.

if you do, somebody’s going to

drive by and

spray your guts with a

submachine gun.

they’re not going to let you

feel good

for very long

anywhere.

the forces aren’t going to

let you sit around

fucking off and

relaxing.

you’ve got to do it

their way.

the unhappy, the bitter and

the vengeful

need their

fix—which is

you or somebody

anybody

in agony, or

better yet

dead, dropped into some

hole.

as long as there are

human beings about

there is never going to be

any peace

for any individual

upon this earth (or

anywhere else

they might

escape to).

all you can do

is maybe grab

ten lucky minutes

here

or maybe an hour

there.

something

is working toward you

right now, and

I mean you

and nobody but

you.

the replacements

Jack London drinking his life away while

writing of strange and heroic men.

Eugene O’Neill drinking himself oblivious

while writing his dark and poetic

works.

now our moderns

lecture at universities

in tie and suit,

the little boys soberly studious,

the little girls with glazed eyes

looking

up,

the lawns so green, the books so dull,

the life so dying of

thirst.

to lean back into it

like in a chair the color of the sun

as you listen to lazy piano music

and the aircraft overhead are not

at war.

where the last drink is as good as

the first

and you realized that the promises

you made yourself were

kept.

that’s plenty.

that last: about the promises:

what’s not so good is that the few

friends you had are

dead and they seem

irreplaceable.

as for women, you didn’t know enough

early enough

and you knew enough

too late.

and if more self-analysis is allowed: it’s

nice that you turned out well-

honed,

that you arrived late

and remained generally

capable.

outside of that, not much to say

except you can leave without

regret.

until then, a bit more amusement,

a bit more endurance,

leaning back

into it.

like the dog who got across

the busy street:

not all of it was good

luck.

eating my senior citizen’s dinner at the Sizzler

between 2 and 5 p.m. any day and any time on Sunday and

Wednesday, it’s 20% off for

us old dogs approaching the sunset.

it’s strange to be old and not feel

old

but I glance in the mirror

see some silver hair

concede that I’d look misplaced at a

rock concert.

I eat alone.

the other oldies