Bach, I said, he had 20 children.
he played the horses during the da
he f—ed at night
and drank in the mornings.
he wrote music in between.

she was a short one
getting fat and she had once been
beautiful and
she drank the wine
she drank the wine in bed and

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.

They don’t make it
the beautiful die in flame—
suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh
ever...
they rip their arms off,

he sat naked and drunk in a room o
night, running the blade of the kn
under his fingernails, smiling, th
of all the letters he had received
telling him that

naked along the side of the house,
8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil
over my body, Jesus, have I come
to this?
I once battled in dark alleys for

the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets
and there was a cat fight outside
and I could feel my soul dropping

I still get letters in the mail, m
men in tiny rooms with factory job
living with whores or no woman at
booze and madness.
Most of their letters are on lined

when you’re young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting

here I am
in the ground
my mouth
open
and