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attempt to locate

me.

I don’t know if they miss all the booze and

the bit of money I gave them

or if they are enthralled at the way

I’ve immortalized them in

literature.

anyhow, they must now make do with

whatever men

they are able to scrounge

up.

—those poor darlings had no

idea…

and neither did I

that those ugly roaring nights

would be fodder

such as even

Dostoevski

would not shy away

from.

the magic curse

I never liked skid-row and so I stayed away from the soup

kitchens, the bloodbanks and all the so-called hand-

outs.

I got so god damned thin that if

I turned sidewise it was hard to see my shadow under a

hard noon sun.

it didn’t matter to me so long as I stayed away from the

crowd

and even down there it was a

successful and an unsuccessful

crowd.

I don’t think I was insane

but many of the

insane think

that

but I think

now

if anything saved me

it was the avoidance of the

crowd

it was my

food

still

is.

get me in a room with more than

3 people

I tend to act

ill

odd.

I once

even asked my wife: look, I must be

sick…perhaps I ought to see a

shrink?

Christ, I said, he might cure me

and then what would I

do?

she just looked at me

and we forgot the

whole

thing.

party’s over

after you’ve pulled off the tablecloth with

the full plates of food

and broken the windows

and rung the bells of

idiots

and have

spoken true and terrible

words

and have

chased the mob through the

doorway—

then comes the great and

peaceful moment: sitting alone

and

pouring that quiet drink.

the world is better without

them.

only the plants and the animals are

true comrades.

I drink to them and with

them.

they wait as I fill their

glasses.

no nonsense

Faulkner loved his whiskey

and along with the

writing

he didn’t have

time

for much

else.

he didn’t open

most of his

mail

just held it up

to the light

and if it didn’t

contain a

check

he trashed

it.

escape

the best part was

pulling down the

shades

stuffing the doorbell

with rags

putting the phone

in the

refrigerator

and going to bed

for 3 or 4

days.

and the next best

part

was

nobody ever

missed

me.

wearing the collar

I live with a lady and four cats

and some days we all get

along.

some days I have trouble with

one of the

cats.

other days I have trouble with

two of the

cats.

other days,

three.

some days I have trouble with

all four of the

cats

and the

lady:

ten eyes looking at me

as if I was a dog.

a cat is a cat is a cat is a cat

she’s whistling and clapping

for the cats

at 2 a.m.

as I sit in here

with my

Beethoven.

“they’re just prowling,” I

tell her…

Beethoven rattles his bones

majestically

and those damn cats

don’t care

about

any of it

and

if they did

I wouldn’t like them

as

well:

things begin to lose their

natural value

when they approach

human

endeavor.

nothing against

Beethoven:

he did fine

for what he

was

but I wouldn’t want

him

on my rug

with one leg

over his head

while

he was

licking

his balls.

marching through Georgia

we are burning like a chicken wing left on the grill of an

outdoor barbecue

we are unwanted and burning we are burning and unwanted we are

an unwanted

burning

as we sizzle and fry

to the bone

the coals of Dante’s Inferno spit and sputter beneath

us

and

above the sky is an open hand and

the words of wise men are useless

it’s not a nice world, a nice world it’s

not…

come on, try this nice burnt chicken-wing poem

it’s hot it’s tough not much

meat

but ’tis sadly sensible

and one or two bites ends it

thus

gone

it left like the ladies of old

as I opened the door

to the room

bed

pillows

walls

I lost it

I lost it somewhere

while walking down the street

or while lifting weights

or while watching a parade

I lost it

while watching a wrestling match

or while waiting at a red light

at noon on some smoggy day

I lost it while putting a coin

into a parking meter

I lost it

as the wild dogs