she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.

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

Born like this
Into this
As the chalk faces smile
As Mrs. Death laughs
As the elevators break

at their best, there is gentleness
some understanding and, at times,
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glo
have too much.

Making love in the sun, in the mor
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun

I got in the shower
and burned my balls
last Wednesday.
met this painter called Spain,
no, he was a cartoonist,

drunk on the dark streets of some
it’s night, you’re lost, where’s y
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.

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

majestic, majic
infinite
my little girl is
sun
on the carpet—

if I suffer at this
typewriter
think how I’d feel
among the lettuce—
pickers of Salinas?