I read a book about John Dos Pas
the book once radical—communist
John ended up in the Hollywood Hi
and reading the
Wall Street Journal

death wants more death, and its we
I remember my father’s garage, how
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies

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

some say we should keep personal r
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some r
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don’t keep

a girlfriend came in
built me a bed
scrubbed and waxed the kitchen flo
scrubbed the walls
vacuumed

I am a panther shut up and bellowi
cement walls, and I am angry at bl
evenings without ventilation
and I am angry with you, and it wi
like a rose

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

I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pajamas
still pretending to be
a writer.

at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table

here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in dra
here comes nothing to do all day l
here comes another night of no sle
here comes the phone wringing the