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. . .

this man used to be an
interesting writer,
he was able to say brisk and
refreshing things.
at the time

the dream of a man
is a whore with a gold tooth
and a garter belt,
perfumed
with false eyebrows

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

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

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

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

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

here they come
these guys
grey truck
radio playing
they are in a hurry

Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the
Orthadox to the
west.
she is dark