and the skies will burn black with crows and your cries,
as you answer for centuries of
unbearable indignity and bullshit.
you will be dealt with
we know you now
we’ve known you forever;
the might of the timorous
flies forth like a tremendous and ever beautiful swan,
no shit, friend,
look up look up look up look up
the jolly damned man with the hoe
is now flying over Milwaukee
grinning
more lovely than the sun
more graceful than all the ugly wounds
more real than you
or I or anything.
(uncollected)
the beautiful lady
we are gathered here now
to bury her in this
poem.
she did not marry an unemployed wino who
beat her every
night.
her several children will never wear
snot-stained shirts
or torn dresses.
the beautiful lady
simply
calmly
died.
and may the clean dirt of this poem
bury
her.
her and her womb
and her jewels
and her combs and her
poems
and her pale blue eyes
and her
grinning
rich
frightened
husband.
my life as a sitcom
stepped into the wrong end of the Jacuzzi and twisted my
right leg which was bad to begin with, then that night got drunk
with a tv writer and an actor, something about using my
life to make a sitcom and luckily that fell through and the next
day at the track I get a box seat in the dining area, get a
menu and a glass of water, my leg is really paining me, I
can barely walk to the betting window and back, then
about the 3rd race the waiter rushes by, asks, “can I
borrow your menu?” but he doesn’t wait for an answer,
he just grabs it and runs off.
a couple of races go by, I fight through my pain and continue to
make my bets, get back, sit down just as the waiter rushes by again.
he grabs all my silverware and my napkin and runs off.
“HEY!” I yell but he’s gone.
all around me people are eating, drinking and laughing.
I check my watch after the 6th race and it is 4:30 p.m.
I haven’t been served yet and I’m 72 years old with
a hangover and a leg from hell.
I pull myself to my feet by the edge of the table and manage
to hobble about looking for the maitre d’. I see him down
a far aisle and wave him in.
“can I speak to you?” I ask.
“certainly, sir!”
“look, it’s the 7th race, they took my menu and my silverware
and I haven’t been served yet.”
“we’ll take care of it right away, sir!”
well, the 7th race went, the 8th race went, and
still no ser vice.
I purchase my ticket for the 9th race and take the
escalator down.
on the first floor, I purchase a sandwich.
I eat it going down another escalator to the parking lot.
the valet laughs as I slowly work my leg into the
car, making a face of pain as I do so.
“got a gimpy leg there, huh, Hank?” he asks.
I pull out, make it to the boulevard and onto the
freeway which immediately begins to slow down because
of a 3-car crash ahead.
I snap on the radio in time to find that my horse
has run out in the 9th.
a flash of pain shoots up my right leg.
I decide to tell my wife about my
misfortunes at the track
even though I know she will respond
by telling me that everything as always
was completely my fault
but when a man is in pain he can’t think right,
he only asks for
more.
and
gets it.
who needs it?
see this poem?
it was
written without drinking.
I don’t need to drink
to write.
I can write without
drinking.
my wife says I can.
I say that maybe I can.
I’m not drinking
and I’m writing.
see this poem?
it was
written without drinking.
who needs a drink now?
probably the reader.
riots
I’ve watched this city burn twice
in my lifetime
and the most notable event
was the reaction of the
politicians in the
aftermath
as they
proclaimed the injustice of
the system
and demanded a new
deal for the hapless and the
poor.
nothing was corrected last
time.
nothing will be changed this
time.
the poor will remain poor.
the unemployed will remain
so.
the homeless will remain
homeless
and the politicians,
fat upon the land, will thrive
forever.
those marvelous lunches
when I was in grammar school
my parents were
poor
and in my lunch bag there was
only a peanut butter sandwich.
Richardson didn’t have a
lunch bag,
he had a lunch pail with
compartments, a
thermos full of
chocolate milk.
he had ham sandwiches,
sliced beef sandwiches,
apples, bananas, a
pickle and a large bag of
potato chips.
I sat next to Richardson
as we ate.
his potato chips looked
so good—
large and crisp as the
sun blazed upon
them.
“you want some potato
chips?” he would
ask.
and each day
I would eat some.
as I went to school each
day
my thoughts
were on Richardson’s
lunch, and especially
those chips.
each morning as we
studied in class
I thought about
lunchtime.
and sitting next to
Richardson.
Richardson was the
sissy and the other
boys looked down
on me
for eating with
him
but I
didn’t care.
it was the potato
chips, I couldn’t
help myself.
“you want some
potato chips, Henry?”
he would
ask.
“yes.”
the other boys got
after me
when Richardson
wasn’t
around.
“hey, who’s your
sissy friend?
you one
too?”
I didn’t like that
but the potato
chips were more
impo
rtant.
after a while
nobody spoke to
me.
sometimes I ate
one of Richardson’s
apples
or I got half a
pickle.
I was always
hungry.
Richardson was
fat,
he had a big
belly
and fleshy
thighs.
he was the only
friend I had in
grammar
school.
we seldom spoke
to each
other.
we just sat
together at
lunchtime.
I walked home with
him after school
and often some of
the boys would
follow us.
they
would gather around
Richardson,
gang up on him,
push him around,
knock him
down
again and
again.
after they were
finished
I would go
pick up his lunch
pail,
which was
spilled on its
side
with the lid
open.
I would place the
thermos back
inside,
close the
lid.
then I would
carry the pail as
I walked Richardson
back to his
house.
we never spoke.
as we got to his door
I would hand him
the lunch
pail.
then the door would
close and he would
be gone.
I was the only friend
he had.
sissies live a hard
life.
The Look:
I once bought a toy rabbit
at a department store
and now he sits and ponders
me with pink sheer eyes:
He wants golf balls and glass
walls.
I want quiet thunder.
Our disappointment sits between us.
the big one
he buys 5 cars a month, details them, waxes and buffs
them out, then
resells them at a profit of one or two grand.
he has a nice Jewish wife and he tells me that he
bangs her until the walls shake.
he wears a red cap, squints in the light, has a regular
job besides the car gig.
I have no idea of what he is trying to accomplish and maybe he
doesn’t either.
he’s a nicer fellow than most, always good to see him,
we laugh, say a few bright lines.
but
each time
after I see him
I get the blues for him, for me, for all of us:
for want of something to do
we keep slaying our small dragons
as the big one waits.
the genius
this man sometimes forgets who
he is.
sometimes he thinks he’s the
Pope.
other times he thinks he’s a
hunted rabbit
and hides under the
bed.
then
all at once
he’ll recapture total
clarity
and begin creating
works of
art.
then he’ll be all right
for some
time.
then, say,
he’ll be sitting with his
wife
and 3 or 4 other
people
discussing various
matters
he will be charming,
incisive,
original.
then he’ll do
something
strange.
like once
he stood up
unzipped
and began
pissing
on the
rug.
another time
he ate a paper
napkin.
and there was
the time
he got into his
car
and drove it
backwards
all the way to
the
grocery store
and back
again
backwards
the other motorists
screaming at
him
but he
made it
there and
back
incident
and without
being
stopped
by a patrol
car.
but he’s best
as the
Pope
and his
Latin
is very
good.
his works of
art
aren’t that
exceptional
but they allow him
to
survive
and to live with
a series of
19-year-old
wives
who
cut his hair
his toenails
bib
tuck and
feed
him.
he wears everybody
out
but
himself.
about the PEN conference
take a writer away from his typewriter
and all you have left
is
the sickness
which started him
typing
in the
beginning.
what a man I was
I shot off his left ear
then his right,
and then tore off his belt buckle
with hot lead,
and then
I shot off everything that counts
and when he bent over
to pick up his drawers
and his marbles
(poor critter)
I fixed it so he wouldn’t have
to straighten up
no more.
Ho Hum.
I went in for a fast snort
and one guy seemed
to be looking at me sideways,
and that’s how he died—
sideways,
lookin’ at me
and clutchin’
for his marbles.
Sight o’ blood made me kinda
hungry.
Had a ham sandwich.
Played a couple of sentimental songs…
Shot out all the lights
and strolled outside.
Didn’t seem to be no one around
so I shot my horse
(poor critter).
Then I saw the Sheerf
a standin’ at the end a’ the road
and he was shakin’
like he had the Saint Vitus’ dance;
it was a real sorrowful sight
so I slowed him to a quiver
with the first slug
and mercifully stiffened him
with the second.
Then I laid on my back awhile
and I shot out the stars one by one
and then
I shot out the moon
and then I walked around
and shot out every light
in town,
and pretty soon it began to get dark
real dark
the way I like it;
just can’t stand to sleep
with no light shinin’
on my face.
I laid down and dreamt
I was a little boy again
a playin’ with my toy six-shooter
and winnin’ all the marble games,
and when I woke up
my guns was gone
and I was all bound hand and foot
just like somebody
was scared a me
and they was slippin’
a noose around my ugly neck
just as if they
meant to hang me,
and some guy was pinnin’
a real pretty sign
on my shirt:
there’s a law for you
and a law for me
and a law that hangs
from the foot of a tree.
Well, pretty poetry always did
make my eyes water
and can you believe it