a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats u
and run inside to the pavilion

the best often die by their own ha
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody

It’s never quite right, he said, t
the way the music sounds, the way
written.
It’s never quite right, he said, a
taught, all the loves we chase, al

yes, they begin out in a willow, I
the starch mountains begin out in
and keep right on going without re
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like

he was 65, his wife was 66, had
Alzheimer’s disease.
he had cancer of the
mouth.
there were

I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.

The flies are angry bits of life;
why are they so angry?
it seems they want more,
it seems almost as if they
are angry

I’ve come by, she says, to tell yo
that this is it. I’m not kidding,
over. this is it.
I sit on the couch watching her ar
her long red hair before my bedroo

in the hospitals and jails
it’s the worst
in madhouses
it’s the worst
in penthouses

the critics now have me
drinking champagne and
driving a BMW
and also married to a
socialite from