In the betting line the other
day
man behind me asked,
“are you Henry
Chinaski?”

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

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

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

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

hooray say the roses, today is bla
and we are red as blood.
hooray say the roses, today is Wed
and we bloom wher soldiers fell
and lovers too,

“what?” they say, “you got a
computer?”
it’s like I have sold out to
the enemy.
I had no idea so many

I see old people on pensions in th
supermarkets and they are thin and
proud and they are dying
they are starving on their feet an
nothing. long ago, among other lie

I was standing in line at the bank
when the old fellow in front of me
dropped his glasses (luckily, with
case)
and as he bent over

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