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purchase, a day’s worth.

another lie they were taught:

thou shalt not steal.

they’d rather starve than steal

(one grape won’t save them)

and in tiny rooms

while reading the market ads

they’ll starve

they’ll die without a sound

pulled out of rooming houses

by young blond boys with long hair

who’ll slide them in

and pull away from the curb, these

boys

handsome of eye

thinking of Vegas and pussy and

victory.

it’s the order of things: each one

gets a taste of honey

then the knife.

shot of red-eye

I used to hold my social security card

up in the air,

he told me,

but I was so small

they couldn’t see it,

all those big

guys around.

you mean the place with the

big green screen?

I asked.

yeah. well, anyhow, I finally got on

the other day

picking tomatoes, and Jesus Christ,

I couldn’t get anywhere

it was too hot, too hot

and I couldn’t get anything in my sack

so I lay under the truck

in the shade and drank

wine. I didn’t make a

dime.

have a drink, I said.

sure, he said.

two big women came in and

I mean BIG

and they sat next to

us.

shot of red-eye, one of them

said to the bartender.

likewise, said the other.

they pulled their dresses up

around their hips and

swung their legs.

um, umm. I think I’m going mad, I told

my friend from the tomato fields.

Jesus, he said, Jesus and Mary, I can’t

believe what I see.

it’s all

there, I said.

you a fighter? the one next to me

asked.

no, I said.

what happened to your

face?

automobile accident on the San Berdoo

freeway. some drunk jumped the divider. I was

the drunk.

how old are you, daddy?

old enough to slice the melon, I said,

tapping my cigar ashes into my beer to give me

strength.

can you buy a melon? she asked.

have you ever been chased across the Mojave and

raped?

no, she said.

I pulled out my last 20 and with an old man’s

virile abandon ordered

four drinks.

both girls smiled and pulled their dresses

higher, if that was possible.

who’s your friend? they asked.

this is Lord Chesterfield, I told them.

pleased ta meetcha, they

said.

hello, bitches, he answered.

we walked through the 3rd street tunnel

to a green hotel. the girls had a

key.

there was one bed and we all got

in. I don’t know who got

who.

the next morning my friend and

I were down at the Farm Labor Market

on San Pedro Street

holding up and waving our social

security cards.

they couldn’t see

his.

I was the last one on the truck out. a big woman stood

up against me. she smelled like

port wine.

honey, she asked, what ever happened to your

face?

fair grounds, a dancing bear who

didn’t.

bullshit, she said.

maybe so, I said, but get your hand out

from around my

balls. everybody’s looking.

when we got to the

fields the sun was

really up

and the world

looked

terrible.

about pain

my first and only wife

painted

and she talked to me

about it:

“it’s all so painful

for me, each stroke is

pain…

one mistake and

the whole painting is

ruined…

you will never understand the

pain…”

“look, baby,” I

said, “why doncha do something easy—

something ya like ta

do?”

she just looked at me

and I think it was her

first understanding of

the tragedy of our being

together.

such things usually

begin

somewhere.

hot

she was hot, she was so hot

I didn’t want anybody else to have her,

and if I didn’t get home on time

she’d be gone, and I couldn’t bear that—

I’d go mad…

it was foolish I know, childish,

but I was caught in it, I was caught.

I delivered all the mail

and then Henderson put me on the night pickup run

in an old army truck,

the damn thing began to heat halfway through the run

and the night went on

me thinking about my hot Miriam

and jumping in and out of the truck

filling mailsacks

the engine continuing to heat up

the temperature needle was at the top

HOT HOT

like Miriam.

I leaped in and out