a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still

with an Apple Macintosh
you can’t run Radio Shack program
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file

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.

the illusion is that you are simpl
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
poem.

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

having the low down blues and goin
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she’s dumpy. her ass is too big.

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind
for 3 or 4 days.
they’ll find me there.
it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and

good weather
is like
good women—
it doesn’t always happen
and when it does

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking

I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hur