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noon and evening and darkness

when actually all we want is to sit in cool green gardens

talking quietly over drinks.

what makes us this way?—ingrown toenails?—or that the ladies

are not enough?—what foolishness makes us tweak the nose of

Death continually?

are we afraid of the slow bedpan?—or slobbering over half-

cooked peas brought to us by a bored nurse with thick

dumb legs?

what wanton hare-brained impulse makes us floor it with

only one hand on the wheel?

don’t we realize the peace of aging

gently?

what hell-call is this to war?

we are the sickest of the breed—as fine museums—great art—

generations of knowledge—are all forgotten

as we find profundity in being an

asshole—

we are going to end up as a

photograph—almost life-sized—hanging

as a warning on the

Traffic Court wall

and people will shudder just a bit and

look the other way

knowing that

too much ego is not

enough.

nervous people

you go in for an item—take it to the clerk at the register—he

doesn’t know the price—begs leave—returns after a long

time—stares at the electronic cash register—rings up the

sale with some difficulty: $47,583.64—you don’t have it

with you—he laughs—calls for help—another clerk

arrives—after another long time he finds a new total:

$1.27. I pay—then must ask for a bag—I thank the

clerk—walk to parking with the lady I am with—“you

make people nervous,” she tells me—

we drive home with the item—we put the item to its task—it

doesn’t work—the item has a factory

defect—

“I’ll take it back,” she says—

I go to the bathroom and piss squarely in the center of the

pot—warfare is just one of the problems which besets everyone

during the life of a decent day.

working out

Van Gogh cut off his ear

gave it to a

prostitute

who flung it away in

extreme

disgust.

Van, whores don’t want

ears

they want

money.

I guess that’s why you were

such a great

painter: you

didn’t understand

much

else.

how is your heart?

during my worst times

on the park benches

in the jails

or living with

whores

I always had this certain

contentment—

I wouldn’t call it

happiness—

it was more of an inner

balance

that settled for

whatever was occurring

and it helped in the

factories

and when relationships

went wrong

with the

girls.

it helped

through the

wars and the

hangovers

the backalley fights

the

hospitals.

to awaken in a cheap room

in a strange city and

pull up the shade—

this was the craziest kind of

contentment

and to walk across the floor

to an old dresser with a

cracked mirror—

see myself, ugly,

grinning at it all.

what matters most is

how well you

walk through the

fire.

forget it

now, listen, when I die I don’t want any crying, just get the

disposal under way, I’ve had a full some life, and

if anybody has had an edge, I’ve

had it, I’ve lived 7 or 8 lives in one, enough for

anybody.

we are all, finally, the same, so no speeches, please,

unless you want to say he played the horses and was very

good at that.

you’re next and I already know something you don’t,

maybe.

quiet

sitting tonight

at this

table

by the

window

the woman is

glooming

in the

bedroom

these are her

especially bad

days.

well, I have

mine

so

in deference

to her

the typewriter

is

still.

it’s odd,

printing this stuff

by

hand

reminds me of

days

past

when things were

not

going well

in another

fashion.

now

the cat comes to

see

me

he flops

under the table

between my

feet

we are both

melting

in the same

fire.

and, dear

cat, we’re still

working with the

poem

and some have

noted

that there’s some

“slippage”

here.

well, at age

65, I can

“slip”

plenty, yet still

run rings

around

those pamby

critics.

Li Po knew

what to do:

drink another

bottle and

face

the consequences.

I turn to my

right, see this huge

head (reflected in the

window) sucking at

a cigarette

and

we grin at

each

other.

then

I turn

back

sit here

and

print more words upon this

paper

there is never

a final