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the kind of stuff I wrote, and on and on, like

that.

the other letter was from the beautiful lady editor, neatly typed on

expensive stationery, and she said that she was no longer

publishing her literary magazine, that she had found God and was

living in a castle on a hill in Italy and helping the poor, and

she signed her famous name, with a “God Bless you,” and that was

that.

ah, you have no idea, in that dark freezing shack, how much I wanted to

be poor in Italy instead of Atlanta, to be a poor peasant,

yes, or even a dog on her bedspread, or even a flea on that

dog on that

bedspread: how much I wanted the tiniest

warmth.

the lady had published me along with Henry Miller, Sartre, Celine,

others.

I should never have asked for money in a world where millions of

peasants were crawling the starving

streets

and even some years later when the lady editor

died

I still thought her

beautiful.

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.

everybody talks too much

when

the cop pulled me

over

I

handed him my

license.

he

went back

to radio in

the make

and model

of my car

and

get clearance on

my plates.

he wrote

the ticket

walked

up

handed it

to me

to

sign.

I did

he gave

me

back the

license.

“how come

you

don’t

say

anything?”

he asked.

I shrugged

my

shoulders.

“well, sir,”

he

said, “have

a

good day

and

drive

carefully.”

I

noticed

some sweat

on his

brow

and the

hand

that held

the

ticket

seemed to

be

trembling

or

perhaps

I

was only

imagining it?

anyhow

I

watched him

move

toward

his

bike

then I

pulled

away…

when confronted

with

dutiful

policemen

or

women

in rancor

I

have nothing

to

say

to them

for

if I

truly

began

it would

end

in

somebody’s

death:

theirs or

mine

so

I

let them

have

their

little

victories

which

they need

far

more

than

I

do.

me and my buddy

I can still see us

together

back then

sitting by the river

while shit-

faced on the

grape

and playing with the

poem

knowing it to be

utterly useless

but something to

do

while

waiting

the Emperors

with their frightened

clay faces

watch us as we

drink

Li Po crumbles his

poems

sets them on

fire

floats them down the

river.

“what have you

done?” I

ask him.

Li passes the

bottle: “they are

going to end

no matter what

happens…”

I drink to his

knowledge

pass the bottle

back

sit tightly upon my

poems

which I have

jammed halfway up my

crotch

I help him burn

some more of his

poesy

they float well

down

the river

lighting up the

night

as good words

should.

song

Julio came by with his guitar and sang his

latest song.

Julio was famous, he wrote songs and also

published books of little drawings and

poems.

they were very

good.

Julio sang a song about his latest love

affair.

he sang that

it began so well

then it went to

hell.

those were not the words exactly

but that was the meaning of the

words.

Julio finished

singing.

then he said, “I still care for

her, I can’t get her off my

mind.”

“what will I do?” Julio

asked.

“drink,” Henry said,

pouring.

Julio just looked at his

glass:

“I wonder what she’s doing

now?”

“probably engaging in oral

copulation,” Henry

suggested.

Julio put his guitar back in

the case and

walked to the

door.

Henry walked Julio to his car which

was parked in the

drive.

it was a nice moonlit

night.

as Julio started his car and

backed out the drive

Henry waved him a

farewell.

then he went inside

sat

down.

he finished Julio’s untouched

drink

then he

phoned

her.

“he was just by,” Henry told

her, “he’s feeling very

bad…”

“you’ll have to excuse me,”

she said, “but I’m busy right

now.”

she hung

up.

and Henry poured one of his

own

as outside the crickets sang

their own

song.

practice

in that depression neighborhood I had two buddies

Eugene and Frank