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wrists: I realized all that

long ago while

starving and

pissing out the

window

while smashing waterglasses of

booze against the behind-in-the-

rent

walls.

Ting, Ding, Beeker, Bleeker and

Blob.

now Death is a plant growing in my

mind

not much to hang on to in this early morning growling.

I am sad for the dead and I am sad for the living

but not for my 5 cats or

for my wife, my wife who will

find her place in

heaven.

and as for the people

dissolved

I didn’t dissolve them, they dissolved

themselves.

and that the sidewalks are empty while

full of feet

passing—

this is the working of the

way.

not much to hang on to

as

a man plays a piano

through my radio and

the walls

stand up and

down

as the courage of everything

even the fleas

the lice

the tarantula

astounds me

in this early morning

growling.

the last shot

here we are, once again, the last drink, the last

poem—decades of this splendid luck—another drunken

a.m., and not on the drunktank floor tonight waiting for

the black pimp to get off the phone so I can put through my one

allowed call (so many of those a.m.s too) it took

me a long time to find the most interesting person to

drink with: myself, like this, now reaching to my left

for the last glass of the Blood of the

Lamb.

whorehouse

my first experience in a whorehouse

was in Tijuana.

it was a large place on the edge of

the city.

I was 17, with two friends.

we got drunk to get our guts

up

then went on

in.

the place was packed with

servicemen

mostly

sailors.

the sailors stood in long

lines

hollering, and beating on

the doors.

Lance got in a short

line (the lines indicated the

age of the whore: the shorter the

line the older the

whore)

and got it over

with, came out bold and

grinning: “well, what you guys

waiting for?”

the other guy, Jack, he passed me

the tequila bottle and I took a

hit and passed it back and he

took a hit.

Lance looked at us: “I’ll be

in the car, sleeping it

off.”

Jack and I waited until he was

gone

then started walking toward the

exit.

Jack was wearing this big

sombrero

and right at the exit was an

old whore sitting in a

chair.

she stuck out her leg

barring our

way: “come on, boys, I’ll make

it good for you and

cheap!”

somehow that scared the

shit out of Jack and he

said, “my god, I’m going to

PUKE!”

“NOT ON THE FLOOR!” screamed

the whore

and with that

Jack ripped off his

sombrero

and holding it

before him

he must have puked a

gallon.

then he just stood there

staring down

at it

and the whore

said, “get out of

here!”

Jack ran out the door with

his sombrero

and then the whore

got a very kind look upon her

face and said to me:

“cheap!” and I walked

into a room with her

and there was a big fat man

sitting in a chair and

I asked her, “who’s

that?”

and she said, “he’s here to

see that I don’t get

hurt.”

and I walked over to the

man and said, “hey, how ya

doin’?”

and he said, “fine,

señor…”

and I said,

“you live around

here?”

and he said, “give

her the

money.”

“how much?”

“two dollars.”

I gave the lady the two

dollars

then walked back to the

man.

“I might come and live

in Mexico some day,” I

told him.

“get the hell out of

here,” he said,

“NOW!”

as I walked through the

exit

Jack was waiting out there

without his

sombrero

but he was still

wavering

drunk.

“Christ,” I said, “she was

great, she actually got my

balls into her

mouth!”

we walked back to the car.

Lance was passed out, we

awakened him and he drove us

out of

there

somehow

we got through the border

crossing

and all the way

driving back to

L.A.

we rode Jack for being a

chickenshit

virgin.

Lance did it in a gentle

manner

but I was loud

demeaning Jack for his lack of

guts

and I kept at it

until Jack passed out

near

San Clemente.

I sat up there next to

Lance as we passed the last

tequila bottle back and

forth.

as Los Angeles rushed toward

us

Jack asked, “how was

it?”

and I answered

in a worldly

tone: “I’ve had

better.”