Contents

Woman's lies



and walks with two young girls

about his age.

every now and then he leaps

into the air and

clicks his heels together. he has on blue jeans and tennis shoesand walks with two young girlsabout his age.every now and then he leapsinto the air andclicks his heels together. he's like a young colt

but somehow he also reminds me

more of a tabby cat. his ass is soft and

he has no more on his mind

than a gnat. he jumps along behind his girls

clicking his heels together. then he pulls the hair of one

runs over to the other and

squeezes her neck. he has fucked both of them and

is pleased with himself.

it has all happened so easily for him. and I think, ah,

my little tabby cat

what nights and days

wait for you. your soft ass

will be your doom.

your agony

will be endless

and the girls

who are yours now

will soon belong to other men

who didn't get their cookies

and cream so easily and

so early. the girls are practicing on you

the girls are practicing for other men

for someone out of the jungle

for someone out of the lion cage. I smile as

I watch you walking along

clicking your heels together. my god, boy, I fear for you

on that night

when you first find out. it's a sunny day now. jump

while you

can.

I am driving down Wilton Avenue

when this girl of about 15

dressed in tight blue jeans

that grip her behind like two hands

steps out in front of my car

I stop to let her cross the street

and as I watch her contours waving

she looks directly through my windshield

at me

with purple eyes

and then blows

out of her mouth

the largest pink globe of

bubble gum

I have ever seen

while I am listening to Beethoven

on the car radio

she enters a small grocery store

and is gone

and I am left with

Ludwig.



shark-mouth

grubby interior with an

almost perfect body,

long blazing hair—it confuses me

and others consistency is terrific:shark-mouthgrubby interior with analmost perfect body,long blazing hair—it confuses meand others she runs from man to man

offering endearments she speaks of love then breaks each man

to her will shark-mouthed

grubby interior we see it too late:

after the cock gets swallowed

the heart follows her long blazing hair

her almost perfect body

walks down the street

as the same sun

falls upon flowers.

Sunday. I am eating a

grapefruit. church is over at the Russian

Orthodox to the

west.

she is dark

of Eastern descent,

large brown eyes look up from the Bible

then down. a small red and black

Bible, and as she reads

her legs keep moving, moving,

she is doing a slow rhythmic dance

reading the Bible...

long gold earrings;

2 gold bracelets on each arm,

and it's a mini-suit, I suppose,

the cloth hugs her body,

the lightest of tans is that cloth,

she twists this way and that,

long young legs warm in the sun... there is no escaping her being

there is no desire to...

my radio is playing symphonic music

that she cannot hear

but her movements coincide exactly

to the rhythms of the

symphony... she is dark, she is dark

she is reading about God. I am God.



Cordon Rouge— with the hookers. drinking 15-dollar champagne —— with the hookers. one is named Georgia and she

doesn't like pantyhose:

I keep helping her pull up

her long dark stockings. the other is Pam— prettier

but not much soul, and

we smoke and talk and I

play with their legs and

stick my bare foot into

Georgia's open purse.

it's filled with

bottles of pills. I

take some of the pills. "listen," I say, "one of

you has soul, the other

looks, can't I combine

the 2 of you? take the soul

and stick it into the looks?" "you want me," says Pam, "it

will cost you a hundred." we drink some more and Georgia

falls to the floor and can't

get up. I tell Pam that I like her

earrings very much. her

hair is long and a natural

red. "I was only kidding about the hundred," she says. "oh," I say, "what will it cost

me?" she lights her cigarette with

my lighter and looks at me

through the flame: her eyes tell me. "look," I say, "I don't think I

can ever pay that price again." she crosses her legs

inhales on her cigarette. as she exhales she smiles

and says, "sure you can."



she asked him. are we going to the movies or not?she asked him. all right, he said, let's go. I'm not going to put any panties on

so you can finger-fuck me in the

dark, she said. should we get buttered popcorn?

he asked. sure, she said. leave your panties on,

he said. what is it? she asked. I just want to watch the movie,

he answered. look, she said, I could go out on

the street, there are a hundred men

out there who'd be delighted to have

me. all right, he said, go ahead out here.

I'll stay home and read the National

Enquirer. you son of a bitch, she said, I am

trying to build a meaningful

relationshp. you can't build it with a hammer,

he said. are we going to the movies or not?

she asked. all right, he said, let's

go... at the corner of Western and

Franklin he put on the blinker

to make his left turn

and a man in the on-coming lane

speeded up

as if to cut him off. brakes grabbed. there wasn't a

crash but there almost was one. he cursed at the man in the other

car. the man cursed back. the

man had another person in the car with

him. it was his wife. they were going to the movies

too.



latest song.

Julio was famous, he wrote songs and also

published books of little drawings and

poems.

they were very

good. Julio came by with his guitar and sang hislatest song.Julio was famous, he wrote songs and alsopublished books of little drawings andpoems.they were verygood. 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.



ah, you're too stupid to be cut like grass,

you're too stupid to let anything violate you— the girls won't use their knives on you

they don't want to

their sharp edge is wasted on you,

you are interested only in baseball games and

western movies and grass blades. I watch you walking with your machine.ah, you're too stupid to be cut like grass,you're too stupid to let anything violate you— the girls won't use their knives on youthey don't want totheir sharp edge is wasted on you,you are interested only in baseball games andwestern movies and grass blades. can't you take just one of my knives?

here's an old one — stuck into me in 1955,

she's dead now, it wouldn't hurt much.

I can't give you this last one—I can't pull it out yet,

but here's one from 1964, how about taking

this 1964 one from me? man mowing the lawn across the way from me

don't you have a knife somewhere in your gut

where love left? man mowing the lawn across the way from me

don't you have a knife somewhere deep in your heart

where love left? man mowing the lawn across the way from me

don't you see the young girls walkign down the sidewalks now

with knives in their purses?

don't you see their beautiful eyes and dresses and

hair?

don't you see their beautiful asses and knees and

ankles? man mowing the lawn across the way from me

is that all you see— those grass blades?

is that all you hear—the drone of the mower? I can see all the way to Italy

to Japan

to the Honduras

I can see the young girls sharpening their knives

in the morning and at noon and at night, and

especially at night, o,

especially at night.

the legs are gone and the hopes — the lava of outpouring,

and I haven't shaved in sixteen days

but the mailman still makes his rounds and

water still comes out of the faucet and I have a photo of

myself with glazed and milky eyes full of simple music

in golden trunks and 8 oz. gloves when I made the semi-finals

only to be taken out by a German brute who should have been

locked in a cage for the insane and allowed to drink blood.

Now I am insane and stare at the wallpaper as one would stare

at a Dalí (he has lost it) or an early Picasso, and I send

the girls out for a beer, the old girls who barely bother to wipe

their asses and say,"well, I guess I won't comb my hair today: it might bring me luck." well, anyway, they wash the dishes and

chop the wood, and the landlady keeps insisting "let me in,

I can't

get in, you've got the lock on, and what's all that singing and

cussing in there?" but she only wants a piece of ass while

she pretends

she wants the rent

but she's not going to get either one of 'em.

meanwhile the skulls of the dead are full of beetles and

Shakes-

peare and old football scores like S.C. 16, N.D. 14 on a John

Baker field goal. I can see the fleet from my window, the sails and the guns, always

the guns poking their eyes in the sky looking for trouble like young

L.A. cops too young to shave, and the younger sailors out

there sex-hungry, trying to act tough, trying to act like men

but really closer to their mother's nipples than to a true evalu-

ation of existence. I say god damn it, that

my legs are gone and the outpourings too. inside my brain

they cut and snip and

pour oil

to burn and fire out early dreams.

"darling," says one of the girls, "you've got to snap out of it,

we're running out of MONEY. how do you want

your toast?

light or dark?" a woman's a woman, I say, and I put my binoculars between her

kneecaps and I can see where

empires have fallen. I wish I had a brush, some paint, some paint and a brush, I say. "why?" asks one of the

whores. BECAUSE RATS DON'T LIKE OIL! I scream. (I can't go on. I don't belong here.) I listen to radio programs and

people's voices talking and I marvel that they can get excited

and interested over nothing and I flick out the lights, I

crash out the lights, and I pull the shades down, I

tear the shades down and I light my last cigar imagining

the dreamjump off the Empire State Building

into the thickheaded bullbrained mob with the hard-on attitude.

already forgotten are the dead of Normandy, Lincoln's

stringy beard,

all the bulls that have died to flashing red capes,

all the love that has died in real women and real men

while fools have been elevated to the trumpet's succulent sneer

and I have fought red-handed and drunk

in slop-pitted alleys

the bartenders of this rotten land. and I laugh, I can still laugh, who can't laugh when the

whole thing

is so ridiculous

that only the insane, the clowns, the half-wits,

the cheaters, the whores, the horseplayers, the bankrobbers, the

poets...are interesting? in the dark I hear the hands reaching for the last of my money

like mice nibbling at paper, automatic feeders on inbred

helplessness, a false drunken God asleep at the wheel...

a quarter rolls across the floor, and I remember all the faces

and

the football heroes, and everything has meaning, and an editor

writes me, you are good

but

you are too emotional

the way to whip life is to quietly frame the agony,

study it and put it to sleep in the abstract.

is there anything less abstract

than dying day by day? The door closes and the last of the great whores have gone

and somehow no matter how they have

killed me, they are all great, and I smoke quietly

thinking of Mexico, the tired horses, of Havana and Spain

and Normandy, of the jabbering insane, of my dear

friends, of no more friends

ever; and the voice of my Mexican buddy saying, "you

won't die

you won't die in the war, you're too smart, you'll take care

of yourself." I keep thinking of the bulls. the brave bulls dying every day.

the whores are gone. the bombing has stopped for a minute. fuck everybody.



to marry.

to the others she says

you've got to marry me.

or maybe she just fucks the ones she wants

to fuck?

she talks about it freely

and lives in the apartment at the end

with a 9-year-old red-haired boy

and a 7-month-old baby.

she gets child support

and when she works

she works in the factories or as a

cocktail waitress.

she has a boyfriend 60 years old

who drinks a jug of wine a day

has a bad leg

and lives at the YMCA.

she smokes dope, mostly grass,

takes pills

wears large dark glasses

and talks talks talks

while not looking at you adn

twisting a long beaded necklace with her thin

nervous fingers.

she has a neck like a swan,

could be a movie star,

twice in the madhouse,

and a sister in prison.

you never know when she is going to

go mad again and

throw tiny fits

and 3 a.m. phone calls at you. she only fucks the ones she doesn't wantto marry.to the others she saysyou've got to marry me.or maybe she just fucks the ones she wantsto fuck?she talks about it freelyand lives in the apartment at the endwith a 9-year-old red-haired boyand a 7-month-old baby.she gets child supportand when she worksshe works in the factories or as acocktail waitress.she has a boyfriend 60 years oldwho drinks a jug of wine a dayhas a bad legand lives at the YMCA.she smokes dope, mostly grass,takes pillswears large dark glassesand talks talks talkswhile not looking at you adntwisting a long beaded necklace with her thinnervous fingers.she has a neck like a swan,could be a movie star,twice in the madhouse,and a sister in prison.you never know when she is going togo mad again andthrow tiny fitsand 3 a.m. phone calls at you. the kids trundle about the apartment

and she fucks and doesn't fuck,

has an exercise chart on her wall

bends this way and that

touches her toes

leaps

stretches and so

forth. she goes from dope to religion

and from religion back to dope and

from black guys to white guys and from white to

black again. when she takes off those dark glasses

her eyes are blue

and she tries to smile

as she twists that necklace

around and around.

there are 3 keys on the end of it:

her car key

her apartment key

and one that I've never

asked her about.

she's not given up,

she's not dead yet,

she's hardly even old,

her air conditioner doesn't

work and that's really all I know

about her because I'm one of those

she wants to

marry.



but look at me,

I have pretty ankles,

and look at my wrists, I have pretty

wrists

o my god,

I thought it was all working,

and now it's her again,

every time she phones you go crazy,

you told me it was over

you told me it was finished,

listen, I've lived long enough to become a

good woman,

why do you need a bad woman?

you need to be tortured, don't you?

you think life is rotten if somebody treats you

rotten it all fits,

doesn't it?

tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like a

piece of shit?

and my son, my son was going to meet you.

I told my son

and I dropped all my lovers.

I stood up in a cafe and screamed

I'M IN LOVE,

and now you've made a fool of me... she's young, she said,but look at me,I have pretty ankles,and look at my wrists, I have prettywristso my god,I thought it was all working,and now it's her again,every time she phones you go crazy,you told me it was overyou told me it was finished,listen, I've lived long enough to become agood woman,why do you need a bad woman?you need to be tortured, don't you?you think life is rotten if somebody treats yourotten it all fits,doesn't it?tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like apiece of shit?and my son, my son was going to meet you.I told my sonand I dropped all my lovers.I stood up in a cafe and screamedI'M IN LOVE,and now you've made a fool of me... I'm sorry, I said, I'm really sorry. hold me, she said, will you please hold me?

I've never been in one of these things before, I said, these triangles... she got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all

over. she paced up and down, wild and crazy. she had

a small body. her arms were thin, very thin and when

she screamed and started beating me I held her

wrists and then I got it through the eyes: hatred,

centuries deep and true. I was wrong and graceless and

sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted.

there was no living creature as foul as I

and all my poems were

false.



as he beats her at night and she screams and nobody stops it

and I see her the next day

standing in the driveway with curlers in her hair

and she has huge buttocks jammed into black

slacks and she says, standing in the sun

"god damn it, 24 hours in this place, I never go anywhere!" it is a highrise apt. next dooras he beats her at night and she screams and nobody stops itand I see her the next daystanding in the driveway with curlers in her hairand she has huge buttocks jammed into blackslacks and she says, standing in the sun"god damn it, 24 hours in this place, I never go anywhere!" then he comes out, proud, the little matador,

a pail of shit, his belly hanging over his bathing trunks—

he might have been a handsome man once, might have,

now they both stand there and he says,

"I think I'm goin' for a swim."

she doesn't answer and he goes to the pool and

jumps into the fishless, sandless water, the peroxide-codeine water,

and I stand by the kitchen window drinking coffee

trying to unboil the fuzzy, stinking picture &mdsah;

after all, you can't live elbow to elbow to people without wanting to

draw a number on them.

every time my toilet flushes they can hear it. every time they

go to bed I can hear them. soon she goes inside and then comes out with 2 colored birds

in a cage. I don't know what they are. they don't talk. they

just move a little, seeming to twitch their tail-feathers and

shit. that's all they do.

she stands there looking at them.

he comes out: the little tuna, the little matador, out of the pool,

a dripping unbeautiful white, the cloth of his wet suit gripping.

"get those birds in the house!"

"but the birds need sun!"

"I sid, get those birds in the house!"

"the birds are gonna die!"

"you listen to me, I said, GET THOSE BIRDS IN THE HOUSE!"

she bends and lifts them, her huge buttocks in the black slacks

looking so sad.

he slams the door behind them. then I hear it.

BAM!

she screams

BAM! BAM!

she screams

then: BAM!

and she screams. I pour another coffee and decide that that's a new

one: he usually only beats her at

night. it takes a man to beat his wife night and

day. although he doesn't look like much

he's one of the few real men around

here.



24-year-old girl from

New York City for

two weeks—about

the time of the garbage

strike out there, and

one night my 34-year-

old woman arrived and

she said, "I want to see

my rival." she did

and then she said, "o,

you're a cute little thing!"

next I knew there was a

screech of wildcats—

such screaming and scratch-

ing, wounded animal moans,

blood and piss... I was shacked with a24-year-old girl fromNew York City fortwo weeks—aboutthe time of the garbagestrike out there, andone night my 34-year-old woman arrived andshe said, "I want to seemy rival." she didand then she said, "o,you're a cute little thing!"next I knew there was ascreech of wildcats—such screaming and scratch-ing, wounded animal moans,blood and piss... I was drunk and in my

shorts. I tried to

separate them and fell,

wrenched my knee. then

they were through the screen

door and down the walk

and out in the street. squad cars full of cops

arrived. a police heli-

copter circled overhead. I stood in the bathroom

and grinned in the mirror.

it's not often at the age

of 55 that such splendid

things occur.

better than the Watts

riots. the 34-year-old

came back in. she had

pissed all over her-

self and her clothing

was torn and she was

followed by 2 cops who

wanted to know why. pulling up my shorts

I tried to explain.



and the lie the ladies of summer will die like the roseand the lie the ladies of summer will love

so long as the price is not

forever the ladies of summer

might love anybody;

they might even love you

as long as a summer

lasts. yet winter will come to them

too white snow and

a cold freezing

and faces so ugly

that even death

will turn away —

wince —

before taking

them.



for and of life

on a windy afternoon in Hollywood

listening to symphony music from my little red radio

on the floor. dying for a beer dyingfor and of lifeon a windy afternoon in Hollywoodlistening to symphony music from my little red radioon the floor. a friend said,

"all ya gotta do is go out on the sidewalk

and lay down

somebody will pick you up

somebody will take care of you." I look out the window at the sidewalk

I see something walking on the sidewalk

she wouldn't lay down there,

only in special places for special people with special $$$$

and

special ways

while I am dying for a beer on a windy afternoon in

Hollywood,

nothing like a beautiful broad dragging it past you on the

sidewalk

moving it past your famished window

she's dressed in the finest cloth

she doesn't care what you say

as long as you do not get in her

way, and it must be that she doesn't shit or

have blood

she must be a cloud, friend, the way she floats past us. I am too sick to lay down

the sidewalks frighten me

the whole damned city frightens me,

what I will become

what I have become

frightens me. ah, the bravado is gone

the big run through center is gone

on a windy afternoon in Hollywood

my radio cracks and spits its dirty music

through a floor full of empty beerbottles. now I hear a siren

it comes closer

the music stops

the man on the radio says,

"we will send you a free 25-page booklet:

FACE THE FACTS ABOUT COLLEGE COSTS." the siren fades into the cardboard mountains

and I look out the window again as the clasped fist of

boiling cloud comes down — the wind shakes the plants outside

I wait for evening I wait for night I wait sitting on a chair

by the window—

the cook drops in the live

red-pink salty

rough-tit crab and

the game works

on come get me.



outside a supermarket

as if I were a walking garbage

can; and I had no desire for her,

no more desire

than for a

phone pole.

what was her message?

that I would never see the top of her

pantyhose? a very tall girl lifts her nose at meoutside a supermarketas if I were a walking garbagecan; and I had no desire for her,no more desirethan for aphone pole.what was her message?that I would never see the top of herpantyhose? I am a man in his 50s

sex is no longer an aching mystery

to me, so I can't understand

being snubbed by a

phone pole.

I'll leave young girls to young

men. it's a lonely world

of frightened people,

just as it has always

been.



built me a bed

scrubbed and waxed the kitchen floor

scrubbed the walls

vacuumed

cleaned the toilet

the bathtub

scrubbed the bathroom floor

and cut my toenails and

my hair. a girlfriend came inbuilt me a bedscrubbed and waxed the kitchen floorscrubbed the wallsvacuumedcleaned the toiletthe bathtubscrubbed the bathroom floorand cut my toenails andmy hair. then

all on the same day

the plumber came and fixed the kitchen faucet

and the toilet

and the gas man fixed the heater

and the phone man fixed the phone.

now I sit here in all this perfection.

it is quiet.

I have broken off with all 3 of my girlfriends. I felt better when everything was in disorder.

it will take me some months to get back to normal:

I can't even find a roach to commune with. I have lost my rhythm.

I can't sleep.

I can't eat. I have been robbed of my filth.



but I also believe in the unexpected

gift

and it is a wondrous thing

when a woman who has read your works

(or parts of them, anyhow)

offers her self to you

out of the blue

a total

stranger. I believe in earning one's own waybut I also believe in the unexpectedgiftand it is a wondrous thingwhen a woman who has read your works(or parts of them, anyhow)offers her self to youout of the bluea totalstranger. such an offer

such a communion

must be taken as

holy. the hands

the fingers

the hair

the smell

the light. one would like to be strong enough

to turn them away those butterflies. I believe in earning one's own way

but I also believe in the unexpected gift. I have no shame.

we deserve one another those butterflies

who flutter to my tiny

flame

and

me.



they're mostly always tough.

basically I'm just trying to get along

with the female, when you

first meet them their eyes

are all moist with under-

standing; laughter abounds

like sand fleas. then, Je-

sus, time tinkles on and

things leak. they

start BOOMING out DEMANDS.

and, actually, what they

demand is basically contrary to what-

ever you are or could be.

what's so strange is the sudden

knowledge that they've never

read anything you've writ-

ten, not really read it at

all. or worse, if they have,

they've come to SAVE

you! which means mainly

wanting you to act like everybody

else and be just like them

and their friends. mean-

while they've sucked

you up and wound you up

in a million webs, and

being somewhat of a

feeling person you can't

help but remember their

good side or the side

that at first seemed to be good. here things are tough butthey're mostly always tough.basically I'm just trying to get alongwith the female, when youfirst meet them their eyesare all moist with under-standing; laughter aboundslike sand fleas. then, Je-sus, time tinkles on andthings leak. theystart BOOMING out DEMANDS.and, actually, what theyis basically contrary to what-ever you are or could be.what's so strange is the suddenknowledge that they've neverread anything you've writ-ten, not really read it atall. or worse, if they have,they've come to SAVEyou! which means mainlywanting you to act like everybodyelse and be just like themand their friends. mean-while they've suckedyou up and wound you upin a million webs, andbeing somewhat of afeeling person youhelp but remember theirgood side or the sidethat at firstto be good. and so you find yourself

alone in your

bedroom grabbing your

gut and saying, o, shit

no, not again. we should have known.

maybe we wanted cotton

candy luck. maybe we

believed. what trash.

we believed like dogs

believe.



includes all of us. the history of melancholiaincludes all of us. me, I writhe in dirty sheets

while staring at blue walls

and nothing. I have gotten so used to melancholia

that

I greet it like an old

friend. I will now do 15 minutes of grieving

for the lost redhead,

I tell the gods. I do it and feel quite bad

quite sad,

then I rise

CLEANSED

even though nothing is

solved. that's what I get for kicking

religion in the ass. I should have kicked the redhead

in the ass

where her brains and her bread and

butter are

at... but, no, I've felt sad

about everything:

the lost redhead was just another

smash in a lifelong

loss... I listen to drums on the radio now

and grin. there is something wrong with me

besides

melancholia.

ask the side walk painters of Paris

ask the sunlight on a sleeping dog

ask the 3 pigs

ask the paperboy

ask the music of Donizetti

ask the barber

ask the murderer

ask the man leaning against a wall

ask the preacher

ask the maker of cabinets

ask the pickpocket or the

pawnbroker or the glass blower

or the seller of manure or

the dentist

ask the revolutionist

ask the man who sticks his head in

the mouth of a lion

ask the man who will release the next

atom bomb

ask the man who thinks he's Christ

ask the bluebird who comes home

at night

ask the peeping Tom

ask the man dying of cancer

ask the man who needs a bath

ask the man with one leg

ask the blind

ask the man with the lisp

ask the opium eater

ask the trembling surgeon

ask the leaves you walk upon

ask a rapist or a

streetcar conductor or an old man

pulling weeds in his garden

ask a bloodsucker

ask a trainer of fleas

ask a man who eats fire

ask the most miserable man you can

find in his most

miserable moment

ask a teacher of judo

ask a rider of elephants

ask a leper, a lifer, a lunger

ask a professor of history

ask the man who never cleans his nails

ask a clown or ask the first face you see

in the light of day

ask your father

ask your son and

his son to be

ask me

ask a burned-out bulb in a paper sack

ask the tempted, the damned, the foolish

the wise, the slavering

ask the builders of temples

ask the men who have never worn shoes

ask Jesus

ask the moon

ask the shadows in the closet

ask the moth, the monk, the madman

ask the man who draws cartoons for The New Yorker

ask a goldfish

ask a fern shaking to a tapdance

ask the map of India

ask a kind face

ask the man hiding under your bed

ask man you hate the most in this

world

ask the man who drank with Dylan Thomas

ask the man who laced Jack Sharkey's gloves

ask the sad-faced man drinking coffee

ask the plumber

ask the man who dreams of ostriches every

night

ask the ticket taker at a freak show

ask the counterfeiter

ask the man sleeping in an alley under

a sheet of paper

ask the conquerors of nations and planets

ask the man who has just cut off his finger

ask a bookmark in the bible

ask the water dripping from a faucet while

the phone rings

ask perjury

ask the deep blue paint

ask the parachute jumper

ask the man with the bellyache

ask the divine eye so sleek and swimming

ask the boy wearing tight pants in

the expensive academy

ask the man who slipped in the bathtub

ask the man chewed by the shark

ask the one who sold me the unmatched

gloves

ask these and all those I have left out

ask the fire the fire the fire —

ask even the liars

ask anybody you please at any time

you please on any day you please

whether it's raining or whether

the snow is there or whether

you are stepping out onto a porch

yellow with warm heat

ask this ask that

ask the man with birdshit in his hair

ask the torturer of animals

ask the man who has seen many bullfights in Spain

ask the owners of new Cadillacs

ask the famous

ask the timid

ask the albino

and the statesman

ask the landlords and the poolplayers

ask the phonies

ask the hired killers

ask the bald men and the fat men

and the tall men and the

short men

ask the one-eyed men, the

oversexed and undersexed men

ask the men who read all the newspaper editorials

ask the men who breed roses

ask the men who feel almost no pain

ask the dying

ask the mowers of lawns and the attenders

of football games

ask any of these or all of these

ask ask ask and

they'll all tell you: a snarling wife on the balustrade is more

than a man can bear.



really

being in bed

night after night

with a woman you no longer

want to screwgame one of the terrible things isreallybeing in bednight after nightwith a woman you no longerwant to screwgame they get old, they don't look very good

anymore — they even tend to

snore, lose

spirit. so, in bed, you turn sometimes,

your foot touches hers — god, awful! —

and the night is out there

beyond the curtains

sealing you together

in the

tomb. and in the morning you go to the

bathroom, pass in the hall, talk,

say odd things; eggs fry, motors

start. but sitting across

you have 2 strangers

jamming toast into mouths

burning the sullen head and gut with

coffee. in 10 million places in America

it is the same —

stale lives propped against each

other

and no place to

go. you get in the car

and you drive to work

and there are more strangers there, most of them

wives and husbands of somebody

else, and besides the guillotine of work, they

flirt and joke and pinch, sometimes tend to

work off a quick screw somewhere—

they can't do it at home—

and then

the drive back home

waiting for Christmas or Labor Day or

Sunday or

something.



I suppose World War One was the best.

really, you know, both sides were much more enthusiastic,

they really had something to fight for,

they really thought they had something to fight for,

it was bloody and wrong but it was Romantic,

those dirty Germans with babies stuck on the ends of their

bayonets, and so forth, and

there were lots of patriotic songs, and the women loved both the

soldiers

and their money. if you gotta have warsI suppose World War One was the best.really, you know, both sides were much more enthusiastic,they really had something to fight for,they really thought they had something to fight for,it was bloody and wrong but it was Romantic,those dirty Germans with babies stuck on the ends of theirbayonets, and so forth, andthere were lots of patriotic songs, and the women lovedthesoldiersand their money. the Mexican war and those other wars hardly ever happened.

and the Civil War, that was just a movie. the wars come too fast now

even the pro-war boys grow weary,

World War Two did them in,

and then Korea, that Korea,

that was dirty, nobody won

except the black marketeers,

and BAM! — then came Vietnam,

I suppose the historians will have a name and a meaning for it,

but the young wised up first

and now the old are getting wise,

almost everybody's anti-war,

no use having a war you can't win,

right or wrong. hell, I remember when I was a kid it

was 10 or 15 years after World War One was over,

we built model planes of Spads and Fokkers,

we bought Flying Aces magazine at the newsstand

we knew about Baron Manfred von Richthofen

and Capt. Eddie Rickenbacker

and we fought in dream trenches with our dream rifles

and had dream

bayonet fights with the dirty

Hun...

and those movies, full of drama and excitement,

about good old World War one, where

we almost got the Kaiser, we almost kidnapped him

once,

and in the end

we finished off all those spike-helmeted bastards

forever. the young kids now, they don't build model warplanes

nor do they dream fight in dream rice paddies,

they know it's all useless, ordinary,

just a job like

sweeping the streets or picking up the garbage,

they'd rather go watch a Western or hang out at the

mall or go to the zoo or a football game, they're

already thinking of college and automobiles and wives

and homes and barbecues, they're already trapped

in another kind of dream, another kind of war,

and I guess it won't kiill them as fast, at least not

physically. it was wrong but World War One was fun for us

it gave us Jean Harlow and James Cagney

and "Mademoiselle from Armenti&egrav;eres, Parley-Voo?"

it gave us

long afternoons and evenings of play

(we didn't realize that many of us were soon to die in

another war)

yes, they fooled us nicely but we were young and loved it —

the lies of our elders —

and see how it has changed —

they can't bullshit

even a kid anymore,

not about all that.



and stare at a

beautiful vase of

flowers

as the woman in my bedroom

angrily switches the light

on and off.

we have had a very bad

argument

and I sit in here smoking

cigarettes from

India

as on the radio an

opera singer's prayers are

not in my

language.

outside, the window to

my left reveals the night

lights of the

city and I only wish

I had the courage to

break through this simple horror

and make things well

again

but my petty anger

prevents

me. I think of devils in helland stare at abeautiful vase offlowersas the woman in my bedroomangrily switches the lighton and off.we have had a very badargumentand I sit in here smokingcigarettes fromIndiaas on the radio anopera singer's prayers arenot in mylanguage.outside, the window tomy left reveals the nightlights of thecity and I only wishI had the courage tobreak through this simple horrorand make things wellagainbut my petty angerpreventsme. I realize hell is only what we

create,

smoking these cigarettes,

waiting here,

wondering here,

while in the other room

she continues to

sit and

switch the light

on and off,

on and

off.



were often entombed with it

instead of with the women

and never with the dog the Egyptians loved the catwere often entombed with itinstead of with the womenand never with the dog but now

here

good people with

good eyes

are very few yet fine cats

with great style

lounge about

in the alleys of

the universe. about

our argument tonight

whatever it was

about

and

no matter

how unhappy

it made us

feel remember that

there is a

cat

somewhere

adjusting to the

space of itself

with a delightful

grace in other words

magic persists

without us

no matter what

we may try to do

to spoil it.

Woman's unconsciousness



as you approach another

traffic accident. the dead dogs of nowhere barkas you approach anothertraffic accident. 3 cars

one standing on its

grill

the other 2 laying

on their sides

wheels turning slowly. 3 of them

at rest:

strange angles

in the dark. it has just

happened. I can see the still

bodies

inside. thse cars

scattered like toys

against the freeway

center

divider. like spacecraft

they have landed

there

as you

drive past. there's no

ambulance yet

no police cars. the rain began

15 mintues

ago. things occur. volcanoes are

1500 times more

powerful than

the first a-

bomb. the dead dogs of

nowhere

those dogs keep

barking. those cars

there like that. obscene.

a dirty trick. it's like

somebody dying

of a heart

attack

in a crowded

elevator. everybody

watching. I finally

reach my street

pull into

the driveway. park.

get out. she meets me

halfway

to the door. "I don't know

what to do,"

she says,"the

stove

went out."



wrapped in a blanket

on a deck chair

on an ocean

steamer. she died of alcoholismwrapped in a blanketon a deck chairon an oceansteamer. all her books of

terrified loneliness. all her books about

the cruelty

of loveless love were all that was left

of her as the stroling vacationer

discovered her body notified the captain and she was quickly dispatched

to somewhere else

on the ship as everything

continued jsut

as

she had written it.

Hugo Wolf went mad while eating an onion

and writing his 253rd song; it was rainy

April and the worms came out of the ground

humming Tannhäuser, and he spilled his milk

with his ink, and his blood fell out to the walls

and he howled and he roared and he screamed, and

down-

stairs his landlady said, I knew it, that rotten son

of a

bitch has dummied up his brain, he's jacked-off

his last piece

of music and now I'll never get the rent, and some-

day he'll be fam-

ous and they'll bury him in the rain, but right now

I wish he'd shut

up that god damned screaming — for my money he's

a silly pansy jackass

and when they move him out of here, I hope they

move in a good solid fish-

erman

or a hangman

or a seller of

biblical tracts.



there was a bar around the corner

and I sat in there

and watched the sun go down

through the window,

a window that overlooked a lot

full of tall dry weeds. after the slaughterhousethere was a bar around the cornerand I sat in thereand watched the sun go downthrough the window,a window that overlooked a lotfull of tall dry weeds. I never showered with the boys at the

plant

after work

so I smelled of sweat and

blood.

the smell of sweat lessens after a

while

but the blood-smell begins to fulminate

and gain power. I smoked cigarettes and drank beer

until I felt good enough to

board the bus

with the souls of all those dead

animals riding with

me;

heads would turn slightly

women would rise and move away from

me. when I got off the bus

I only had a block to walk

and one stairway up to my

room

where I'd turn on my radio and

light a cigarette

and nobody minded me

at all.



somebody had stolen my coat

I could feel the flu coming on

and my tires were

low. I went in to get a

beer at the German bar

but the waitress was having a fit

her heart strangled by disappointment

grief and loss.

women get troubled all at once,

you know. I left a tip

and got out. I had lost the last race bigsomebody had stolen my coatI could feel the flu coming onand my tires werelow. I went in to get abeer at the German barbut the waitress was having a fither heart strangled by disappointmentgrief and loss.women get troubled all at once,you know. I left a tipand got out. nobody wins.

ask Caesar.



and worked the

streets

but often couldn't

score, they

ended up

in my hotel

room

3 or 4 of

them

sucking at the

wine,

hair in face,

runs in stockings,

cursing, telling

stories... the girls were youngand worked thestreetsbut often couldn'tscore, theyended upin my hotelroom3 or 4 ofthemsucking at thewine,hair in face,runs in stockings,cursing, tellingstories... somehow

those were

peaceful

nights but really

they reminded me

of long

ago

when I was a

boy

watching my grand-

mother's

canaries make

droppings

into their

seed

and into their

water

and the

canaries were

beautiful

and

chattered

but

never

sang.



a young fellow and a lovely young girl

are ahead of me.

her pants, her blouse are skin-

tight.

as we ascend

she rests one foot on the

step above and her behind

assumes a fascinating shape.

the young man looks all

around.

he appears worried.

he looks at me.

I look

away. as I go to the escalatora young fellow and a lovely young girlare ahead of me.her pants, her blouse are skin-tight.as we ascendshe rests one foot on thestep above and her behindassumes a fascinating shape.the young man looks allaround.he appears worried.he looks at me.I lookaway. no, young man, I am not looking,

I am not looking at your girl's behind.

don't worry, I respect her and I respect you.

in fact, I respect everything: the flowers that gorw, young women,

children, all the animals, our precious complicated

universe, everyone and everything. I sense that the young man now feels

better and I am glad for

him. I know his problem: the girl has

a mother, a father, maybe a sister or

brother,c and undoubtedly a bunch of

unfriendly relatives and she likes to

dance and flirt and she likes to

go to the movies and sometimes she talks

and chews gum at the same time and

she enjoys really dumb TV shows and

she thinks she's a budding actress and she

doesn't always look so good and she has a

terrible temper and sometimes she almost goes

crazy and she can talk for hours on the

telephone and she wants to go to

Europe some summer soon and she wants you to

buy her a near-new Mercedes and she's in love with

Mel Gibson and her mother is a

drunk and her father is a racist

and sometimes when she drinks too much she

snores and she's often cold in bed and

she has a guru, a guy who met Christ

in the desert in 1978, and she wants to

be a dancer and she's unemployed and she

gets migraine headaches every time she

eats sugar or cheese. I watch him take her

up

the escalator, his arm

protectively around her

waist, thinking he's

lucky,

thinking he's a real special

guy, thinking that

nobody in the world has

what he has. and he's right, terribly

terribly right, his arm around

that warm bucket of

intestine,

bladder,

kidneys,

lungs,

salt,

sulphur,

carbon dioxide

and

phlegm. lotsa

luck.



can't open the door.

can't open the jam lid.

can't find a pair of socks that match.

I was born in Andernach in 1920 and never thought it

would be like this. yes, it's dark in here.can't open the door.can't open the jam lid.can't find a pair of socks that match.I was born in Andernach in 1920 and never thought itwould be like this. at the races today I was standing in the 5-win line.

this big fat guy with body odor

kept jamming his binoculars into my ass and I turned and

said,

"pardon me, sir, could you please stop jamming those goddamned

binocs into my ass?"

he just looked at me with little pig eyes—

rather pink with olive pits for pupils—

and the eyes just kept looking at me until I stepped away and then

got sick, vomited into a

trash can. I keep getting letters from an uncle in Andernach who must be

95 years old and he keeps asking,

"my body, why don't you WRITE?"

what can I write him? unfortunately

there is nothing that I can write. I pull on my shorts and they rip.

sleep is impossible, I mean good sleep. I just get

small spurts of it, and then back to the job where the foreman

comes by:

"Chinaski, for a pieceworker you crawl like a snail!" I'm sick and I'm tired and I don't know where to go or what to do.

well, at lunchtime we all ride down the elevator together

making kokes and laughing

and then we sit in the employees' cafeteria making jokes and

laughing and eating the recooked food;

first they buy it then they fry it

then they reheat it then they sell it, can't be a germ left in there

or a vitamin either. but we joke and laugh

otherwise we would start

screaming. on Saturday and Sunday when I don't have money to go to the track

I just lay in bed.

I never get out of bed.

I don't want to go to a movie;

it is shameful for a full-grown man to go to a movie alone.

and women are less than nothing. they terrify

me. I wonder what Andernach is like? I think that if they would let me just stay in bed I could

get well or strong or at least feel better;

but it's always up and back to the machine,

searching for stockings that match,

shorts that won't tear,

looking at my face in the mirror, disgusted with

my face. my uncle, what is he thinking with his crazy

letters? we are all little forgotten pieces of shit

only we walk and talk

laugh

make jokes

and

the shit shits. some day I will tell that foreman off.

I will tell everybody off.

and walk down to the end of the road and

make swans out of the blackbirds and

lions out of berry leaves.



to bury her in this

poem. we are gathered here nowto bury her in thispoem. she did not marry an unemployed wino who

beat her every

night. her several children will never wear

snot-stained shirts

or torn dresses. the beautiful lady

simply

calmly

died. and may the clean dirt of this poem

bury

her. her and her womb

and her jewels

and her combs and her

poems and her pale blue eyes

and her

grinning

rich

frightened

husband.



that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's

over. this is it. I've come by, she says, to tell youthat this is it. I'm not kidding, it'sover. this is it. I sit on the couch watching her arrange

her long red hair before my bedroom

mirror.

she pulls her hair up and

piles it on top of her head —

she lets her eyes look at

my eyes—

then she drops the hair and

lets it fall down in front of her face. we go to bed and I hold her

speechlessly from the back

my arm around her neck

I touch her wrists and hands

feel up to

her elbows

no further. she gets up. this is it, she says,

eat your heart out. you

got any rubber bands? I don't know.

here's one, she says,

this will do. well,

I'm going. I get up and walk her

to the door. just as she leaves

she says,

I want you to buy me

some high-heeled shoes

with tall thin spikes,

black high-heeled shoes.

no, I want them red. I watch her walk down the cement walk

under the trees

she walks all right and

as the poinsettias drip in the sun

I close the door.



movie stars

and they lounge on the

lawn

sunbathing

and one sits in a short

dress and high

heels, legs crossed

exposing miraculous

thighs.

she has a bandanna

on her head

and smokes a

long cigarette.

traffic slows

almost stops. are more beautiful thanmovie starsand they lounge on thelawnsunbathingand one sits in a shortdress and highheels, legs crossedexposing miraculousthighs.she has a bandannaon her headand smokes along cigarette.traffic slowsalmost stops. the girls ignore

the traffic.

they are half

asleep in the afternoon

they are whores

they are whores without

souls

and they are magic

because they lie

about nothing. I get in my car

wait for traffic to

clear,

drive across the street

to the green hotel

to my favorite:

she is

sunbathing on the

lawn nearest the

curb. "hello," I say.

she turns eyes like

imitation diamonds

up at me.

her face has no

expression. I drop my latest

book of poems

out the car

window.

it falls

by her side. I shift into

low,

drive off. there'll be some

laughs

tonight.

3. Man's love for women is the will to unconsciousness



painted a deep, rich yellow

driving under an Italian sun.

I have a British accent.

I'm wearing dark shades

an expensive silk shirt.

there's no dirt under my

fingernails.

the radio plays Vivaldi

and there are two women with

me

one with raven hair

the other a blonde.

they have small breasts and

beautiful legs

and they laugh at everything I

say. I am in this low-slung sports carpainted a deep, rich yellowdriving under an Italian sun.I have a British accent.I'm wearing dark shadesan expensive silk shirt.there's no dirt under myfingernails.the radio plays Vivaldiand there are two women withmeone with raven hairthe other a blonde.they have small breasts andbeautiful legsand they laugh at everything Isay. as we drive up a steep road

the blonde squeezes my leg

and nestles closer

while raven hair

leans across and nibbles my

ear. we stop for lunch at a quaint

rustic inn.

there is more laughter

before lunch

during lunch and after

lunch. after lunch we will have a

flat tire on the other side of

the mountain

and the blonde will change the

tire

while

raven hair

photographs me

lighting my pipe

leaning against a tree

the perfect background

perfectly at peace

with

sunlight

flowers

clouds

birds

everywhere.



freaks

the beatings up against the wire fence

our schoolmates watching

glad that they were not the victim;

we were beaten well and good

time after time

and afterwards were

followed

taunted all the way home where often

more beatings awaited us. the schoolyard was a horror show: the bullies, thefreaksthe beatings up against the wire fenceour schoolmates watchingglad that they were not the victim;we were beaten well and goodtime after timeand afterwards werefollowedtaunted all the way home where oftenmore beatings awaited us. in the schoolyard the bullies ruled well,

and in the restrooms and

at the water fountains they

owned and disowned us at will

but in our own way we held strong

never begged for mercy

we took it straight on

silently

we were toughened by that horror

a horror that would later serve us in good stead

and then strangely

as we grew stronger and bolder

the bullies gradually began to back off. grammar school

jr. high

high school

we grew up like odd neglected plants

gathering nourishment where we could

blossoming in time

and later when the bullies tried to befriend us

we turned them away. then college

where under a new regime

the bullies melted almost entirely away

we became more and they became much less. but there were new bullies now

the professors

who had to be taught the hard lessons we'd learned

we glowed madly

it was grand and easy

the coeds dismayed at our gamble

and our nerve

but we looked right through them

to the larger fight waiting out there. then when we arrived out there

it was back up against the fence

new bullies once again

deeply entrenched by society

bosses and the like

who kept us in our place for decades to come

so we had to begin all over again

in the street

and in small rooms of madness

rooms that were always dim at noon

it lasted and lasted for years like that

but our former training enabled us to endure

and after what seemed like

an eternity

we finally found the tunnel at the end of the light. it was a small enough victory

no songs of braggadocio because

we knew we had won very little from very little,

and that we had fought so hard to be free

just for the simple sweetness of it. but even now we still can see the grade school janitor

with his broom

and sleeping face;

we can still see the little girls with their curls

their hair so carefully brushed and shining

in their freshly starched dresses; see the faces of the teachers

fat folded forlorn; hear the bell at recess;

see the grass and the baseball diamond;

see the volleyball court and its white net;

feel the sun always up and shining there

spilling down on us like the juice of a giant tangerine. and we did not soon forget

Herbie Ashcroft

our principal tormentor

his fists as hard as rocks

as we crouched trapped against the steel fence

as we heard the sounds of automobiles passing but not stopping

and as the world went about doing what it does

we asked for no mercy

and we returned the next day and the next and the next

to our classes

the little girls looking so calm and secure

as they sat upright in their seats

in that room of blackboards and chalk

while we hung on grimly to our stubborn disdain

for all the horror and all the strife

and waited for something better

to come along and comfort us

in that never-to-be-forgotten

grammar school world.



all their kisses the

different ways they love and

talk and need. all the womenall their kisses thedifferent ways they love andtalk and need. their ears they all have

ears and

throats and dresses

and shoes and

automobiles and ex-

husbands. mostly the women are very

warm they remind me of

buttered toast with the butter

melted

in. there is a look in the

eye: they have been

taken they have been

fooled. I don't quite know what to

do for

them. I am

a fair cook a good

listener

but I never learned to

dance—I was busy

then with larger things. but I've enjoyed their different

beds

smoking cigarettes

staring at the

ceilings. I was neither vicious nor

unfair. only

a student. I know they all have these

feet and barefoot they go across the floor as

I watch their bashful buttocks in the

dark. I know that they like me, some even

love me

but I love very

few. some give me oranges and vitamin pills;

others talk quietly of

childhood and fathers and

landscapes; some are almost

crazy but none of them are without

meaning; some love

well, others not

so; the best at sex are not always the

best in other

ways; each has limits as I have

limits and we learn

each other

quickly. all the women all

women all the

bedrooms

the rugs the

photos the

curtains, it's

something like a church only

at times there's

laughter. those ears those

arms those

elbows those eyes looking the fondness and

the wanting I have been

held I have been

held.



do.

they're so nice to have around.

they have a way of playing with

the balls.

and looking at the cock very

seriously

turning it

tweeking it

examining each part

as their long hair falls on

your belly. by God, I don't know what todo.they're so nice to have around.they have a way of playing withthe balls.and looking at the cock veryseriouslyturning ittweeking itexamining each partas their long hair falls onyour belly. it's not the fucking and sucking

alone that reaches into a man

and softens him, it's the extras,

it's all the extras. now it's raining tonight

and there's nobody

they are elsewhere

examining things

in new bedrooms

in new moods

or maybe in old

bedrooms. anyhow, it's raining tonight,

one hell of a dashing, pouring

rain... very little to do.

I've read the newspaper

paid the gas bill

the electric co.

the phone bill. it keeps raining. they soften a man

and then let him swim

in his own juice. I need an old-fashioned whore

at the door tonight

closing her green umbrella,

drops of moonlit rain on her

purse, saying, "shit, man,

can't you get better music

than that on your radio?

and turn up the heat..." it's always when a man's swollen

with love and everything

else

that it keeps raining

splattering

flooding

rain

good for the trees and the

grass and the air...

good for things that

live alone. I would give anything

for a females hand on me

tonight.

they soften a man and

then leave him

listening to the rain.



so

we suck on a cigar

and a beer

attempting to mend the love

wounds of the soul. andsowe suck on a cigarand a beerattempting to mend the lovewounds of the soul. a beer. a cigar. I listen to Verdi

scratch my hindquarters

and

stare out of

a cloud of

blue

smoke. have you ever been to

Venice? Madrid? the stress of continually facing the

lowered

horn

is wearing. then too

I sometimes think of a

less stressful kind of

love—

it can and should be so

easy

like falling asleep

in a chair or

like a church full of

windows. sad enough,

I wish only for that careless love

which is sweet

gentle

and which is

now

(like

this light

over my head)

there only to serve me

while I

smoke smoke smoke

out of a certain center dressed

in an old brown shirt. but I am caught under a pile of

bricks;

poetry is shot in the head

and walks down the alley

pissing on its legs. friends, stop writing of

breathing

in this sky of fire.

small children,

walk well behind us. but now Verdi

abides with the

wallpaper

with beerlove,

with the taste of wet gold as

my fingers dabble in ashes

as strange young ladies walk outside

my window

dreaming of broomsticks,

palaces

and

blueberry pie.



Friday afternoon hungover

I didn't have a job I was glad I had money in the Savings and LoanFriday afternoon hungoverI didn't have a job I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan

I didn't know how to play a guitar

Friday afternoon hungover Friday afternoon hungover

across the street from Norm's

across the street from The Red Fez I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan

split with my girlfriend and blue and demented

I was glad to have my passbook and stand in line I watched the buses run up Vermont

I was too crazy to get a job as a driver of buses

and I didn't even look at the young girls I got dizzy standing in line but I

just kept thinking I have money in this building

Friday afternoon hungover I didn't know how to play the piano

or even hustle a damnfool job in a carwash

I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan finally I was at the window

it was my Japanese girl

she smiled at me as if I were some amazing god

back again, eh? she said and laughed

as I showed her my withdrawal slip and my passbook

as the buses ran up and down Vermont the camels trotted across the Sahara

she gave me the money and I took the money

Friday afternoon hungover I walked into the market and got a cart

and I threw sausages and eggs and bacon and bread in there

I threw beer and salami and relish and pickles and mustard in there I looked at the young housewives wiggling casually

I threw t-bone steaks and porterhouse and cube steaks in my cart

and tomatoes and cucumbers and oranges in my cart Friday afternoon hungover

split with my girlfriend and blue and demented

I was glad I had money in the Savings and Loan



when things aren't going well

and whores when they are.

the whores are there for young boys and old

men; to the young boys they say,

"don't be frightened, honey, here I'll put t

in for you."

and for the old guys

they put on an act

like you're really hooking it home.

society should realize the value of the

whore—I mean, those girls who really enjoy their

work—those who make it almost an

art form. you consult psychiatrists and philosopherswhen things aren't going welland whores when they are.the whores are there for young boys and oldmen; to the young boys they say,"don't be frightened, honey, here I'll put tin for you."and for the old guysthey put on an actlike you're really hooking it home.society should realize the value of thewhore—I mean, those girls who really enjoy theirwork—those who make it almost anart form. I'm thinking of the time

in a Mexican whorehouse

this gal with her little bowl and her rag

washing my dick,

and it got hard and she laughed and I

laughed and she

kissed it, gently and slowly, then she walked over and

spread out

on the bed

and I got on and we worked easily, no effort, no

tension, and some guy beat on the door and

yelled,

"Hey! what the hell's going on in there?

Hurry it up!"

but it was like a Mahler symphony—you just don't

rush

it. when I finished and she came back, there was

the bowl and the rag again

and we both laughed; then she kissed it

gently and

slowly, and I got up and put my clothes back on and

walked out—

"Jesus, buddy, what the hell were ya doin' in

there?"

"Fuckin'," I told the gentleman

and walked down the hall and down the steps and stood

outside in the road and lit one of those

sweet Mexican cigarettes in the moonlight.

liberated and human again

for a mere $3, I

loved the night, Mexico and

myself.



too little too muchtoo little too fat

too thin

or nobody. laughter or

tears haters

lovers strangers with faces like

the backs of

thumb tacks armies running through

streets of blood

waving winebottles

bayoneting and fucking

virgins. or an old guy in a cheap room

with a photograph of M. Monroe. there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock. people so tired

mutilated

either by love or no love. people just are not good to each other

one on one the rich are not good to the rich

the poor are not good to the poor. we are afraid. our educational system tells us

that we can all be

big-ass winners. it hasn't told us

about the gutters

or the suicides. or the terror of one person

aching in one place

alone untouched

unspoken to watering a plant. people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other. I suppose they never will be.

I don't ask them to be. but sometimes I think about

it. the beads will swing

the clouds will cloud

and the killer will behead the child

like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone. too much

too little

too fat

too thin

or nobody more haters than lovers. people are not good to each other.

perhaps if they were

our deaths would not be so sad. meanwhile I look at young girls

stems

flowers of chance. there must be a way. surely there must be a way we have not yet

thought of.

who put this brain inside of me? it cries

it demands

it says that there is a chance. it will not say

"no."



would light my room

like many candles. her shoes themselveswould light my roomlike many candles. she walks like all things

shining on glass,

like all things

that make a difference. she walks like all thingsshining on glass,like all thingsthat make a difference. she walks away.

when you're young

a pair of

female

high-heeled shoes

just sitting

alone

in the closet

can fire your

bones;

when you're old

it's just

a pair of shoes

without

anybody

in them

and

just as

well.

you with long hair, legs crossed high, sitting at the end of

the bar, you like a butcher knife against my throat

as the nightingale sings elsewhere while

laughter mingles with the roach's hiss.

I know you as

the piano player in the restaurant who plays badly,

his mouth a tiny cesspool and his eyes little wet rolls of

toilet paper.

you rode behind me on my bicycle as I pumped toward Venice as

a boy, I knew you were there, even in that brisk wind I smelled

your

breath.

I knew you in the love bed as you whispered lies of passion while

your

nails dug me into you.

I saw you adored by crowds in Spain while pigtail boys with

swords

coloured the sun for your glory.

I saw you complete the circle of friend, enemy, celebrity and

stranger as the fox ran through the sun carrying its heart in its

mouth.

those madmen I fought in the back alleys of bars were

you.

you, yes, heard Plato's last words.

not too many mornings ago I found my old cat in the yard,

dry tongue stuck out awry as if it had never belonged, eyes tangled,

eyelids soft yet, I lifted her, daylight shining upon my

fingers and her fur, my ignorant existence roaring against the

hedges and the flowers.

I know you, you wait while the fountains gush and the scales weigh,

you tiresome daughter-of-a-bitch, come on in, the door is

open.