Van Gogh cut off his ear
gave it to a
prostitute
who flung it away in
extreme

There are sketches on the walls of
and outside a large green bus swer
insanity sprung from a waving line
says the radio, and Jane Austin,
"I am going to do her portrait on

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

of course, I may die in the next t
and I’m ready for that
but what I’m really worried about
that my editor—publisher might ret
even though he is ten years younge

as the poems go into the thousands
realize that you’ve created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sun
the traffic, the nights and the da

I awakened to dryness and the fern
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled co
surrounded me with their uselessne

we had goldfish and they circled a
in the bowl on the table near the
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting
to be happy, told me, ‘be happy He

when Whitman wrote, “I sing the b
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:

often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,

Long walks at night—
that’s what good for the soul:
peeking into windows
watching tired housewives
trying to fight off