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we are all burning together

burning brothers and sisters

I like it I like it I like

it.

late late late poem

you think about the time in

Malibu

after taking the tall girl

to dinner and drinks

you came out to the Volks

and the clutch was

gone

(no Auto Club card)

nothing out there but the

ocean and

25 miles to your

room

(her suitcase there

after an air trip from somewhere

in Texas)

and you say to her, “well,

maybe we’ll swim back in,” and

she forgets to

smile.

and the problem with

writing these poems

as you get into number 7 or

8 or 9

into the second bottle near

3 a.m.

trying to light your

cigarette with a book of

stamps

after already setting the

wastebasket on fire

once

is

that there is still some

adventure and joy

in typing

as the radio roars its

classical music

but the content

begins to get

thin.

3 a.m. games:

the worst thing is

being drunk

all the lighters gone

dumb

matchbooks

empty

cigarette and cigar stubs

all about

you find a small pack of

matches

with 3 paper

matches

but the matches go

limp against the worn match

cover

shit:

drink without smoke is like

cock without

pussy

you drink some

more

search about

find one paper match of

happiness

carefully scratch it

against the least-worn

empty match

pack

it flares!

you’ve got your

smoke!

you light

up

you flick the match

toward a

tray

it misses

and

like that…

a flame rises

everything is BURNING

at last!

: an American Express customer

receipt

: some of the empty match

books

: even one of the dead

lighters

the flame whirls and

leaps

then the whole ashtray of

cigarette and cigar stubs

begins to smoke

as if mouths were inhaling

them

you battle the flames with

various and sundry objects

including your

hands

until finally the flame is

gone and there is nothing but

smoke

as again you get that

re-occurring thought: I must be

crazy.

you hear your wife’s

voice:

“Hank, are you all

right?”

she’s on the other side of

the wall in the

bedroom

“oh, I’m fine…”

“I smell smoke…is the house burning

down?”

“just a small fire, Linda…I got

it…go to sleep…”

she is the one who got you

the steel wastebasket

after a similar

occurrence

soon she is asleep

again

and you’re searching

for more

matches.

someday I’m going to write a primer for crippled saints but meanwhile…

as the Bomb sits out there in the hands of a

diminishing species

all you want

is me sitting next to you

with popcorn and Dr. Pepper

as those dull celluloid teeth

chew away at

my remains.

I don’t worry too much about the

Bomb—the madhouses are full

enough

and I always remember

after one of the best pieces of ass

I ever had

I went to the bathroom and

masturbated—hard to kill a man

like that with a

Bomb?

anyhow, I’ve finally shaken

R. Jeffers and Celine from my

belltower

and I sit there alone

with you and

Dostoevsky

as the real and the

artificial heart

continues to

falter,

famished…

I love you but

don’t know what to

do.

help wanted

I was a crazed young man and then found this book written by a

crazed older man and I felt better because he was

able to write it down

and then I found a later book by this same crazed older

man

only to me

he seemed no longer crazed he just appeared to be

dull—

we all hold up well for a while, then inherent with flaws and

skips and misses

most of us

so often deteriorate overnight

into a state so near defecation

that the end result is almost unbearable to the

senses.

luckily, I found a few other crazed men who almost remained that

way until they

died.

that’s more sporting, you know, and lends a bit more to our

lives

as we attend to our—

inumbrate—

tasks.

sticks and stones…

complaint is often the result of an insufficient

ability

to live within

the obvious restrictions of this

god damned cage.

complaint is a common deficiency

more prevalent than

hemorrhoids

and as these lady writers hurl their spiked shoes

at me

wailing that

their poems will never be

promulgated