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

—he’s a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business

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

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

there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind
for 3 or 4 days.
they’ll find me there.
it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and

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.

he lives in a house with a swimmin
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem t
get rid of

sway with me, everything sad—
madmen in stone houses
without doors,
lepers steaming love and song
frogs trying to figure

when Whitman wrote, “I sing the b
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted: