she was hot, she was so hot
I didn’t want anybody else to have
and if I didn’t get home on time
she’d be gone, and I couldn’t bear
I’d go mad. . .

out of the arm of one love
and into the arms of another
I have been saved from dying on th
by a lady who smokes pot
writes songs and stories

They don’t make it
the beautiful die in flame—
suicide pills, rat poison, rope wh
ever...
they rip their arms off,

by God, I don’t know what to
do.
they’re so nice to have around.
they have a way of playing with
the balls

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.

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

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

you won’t see them often
for wherever the crowd is
they
are not.
those odd ones, not

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 laugh sometimes when I think ab
say
Céline at a typewriter
or Dostoevsky...
or Hamsun...