I awaken about noon and go out to
in my old torn bathrobe.
I’m hung over
hair down in my eyes
barefoot

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronad
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the wi
while it was playing, and, of cour
it would break the glass in the wi

I am in this low—slung sports car
painted a deep, rich yellow
driving under an Italian sun.
I have a British accent.
I’m wearing dark shades

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed
I am so very sorry 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

at the track today,
Father’s Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a

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

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

this head like a saucer
decorated with everything
as lip to lip we hang
in mechanical joy;
my hands blaze with arias

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