Mike.
they wouldn’t give him his clothes
so Mike walked to the elevator in his
gown.
we got on and there was a kid driving the
elevator and eating a popsicle.
nobody’s allowed to leave here in a gown,
he said.
you just drive this thing, kid, I said,
we’ll worry about the gown.
Mike was all puffed-up, triple size
but I got him into the car somehow
and gave him a cigarette.
I stopped at the liquor store for 2 six packs
then went on in. I drank with Mike and his wife until
11 p.m.
then went upstairs…
where’s Mike? I asked his wife 3 days later,
you know he said he was going to wax my car.
Mike died, she said, he’s gone.
you mean he died? I asked.
yes, he died, she said.
I’m sorry, I said, I’m very sorry
it rained for a week after that and I figured the only
way I’d get the 5 back was to go to bed with his wife
but you know
she moved out 2 weeks later
an old guy with white hair moved in there
and he had one blind eye and played the French Horn.
there was no way I could make it with
him.
some people
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they’ll find me there.
it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I’ll rise with a roar,
rant, rage—
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I’ll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
father, who art in heaven—
my father was a practical man.
he had an idea.
you see, my son, he said,
I can pay for this house in my lifetime,
then it’s mine.
when I die I pass it on to you.
now in your lifetime you can acquire a house
and then you’ll have two houses
and you’ll pass those two houses on to your
son, and in his lifetime he acquires a house,
then when he dies, his son—
I get it, I said.
my father died while trying to drink a
glass of water. I buried him.
solid mahogany casket. after the funeral
I went to the racetrack, met a high yellow.
after the races we went to her apartment
for dinner and goodies.
I sold his house after about a month.
I sold his car and his furniture
and gave away all his paintings except one
and all his fruit jars
(filled with fruit boiled in the heat of summer)
and put his dog in the pound.
I dated his girlfriend twice
but getting nowhere
I gave it up.
I gambled and drank away the money.
now I live in a cheap front court in Hollywood
and take out the garbage to
hold down the rent.
my father was a practical man.
he choked on that glass of water
and saved on hospital
bills.
nerves
twitching in the sheets—
to face the sunlight again,
that’s clearly
trouble.
I like the city better when the
neon lights are going and
the nudies dance on top of the
bar
to the mauling music.
I’m under this sheet
thinking.
my nerves are hampered by
history—
the most memorable concern of mankind
is the guts it takes to
face the sunlight again.
love begins at the meeting of two
strangers. love for the world is
impossible. I’d rather stay in bed
and sleep.
dizzied by the days and the streets and the years
I pull the sheets to my neck.
I turn my ass to the wall.
I hate the mornings more than
any man.
the rent’s high too
there are beasts in the salt shaker
and airdromes in the coffeepot.
my mother’s hand is in the bag drawer
and from the backs of spoons come
the cries of tiny tortured animals.
in the closet stands a murdered man
wearing a new green necktie
and under the floor,
there’s a suffocating angel with flaring
they wouldn’t give him his clothes
so Mike walked to the elevator in his
gown.
we got on and there was a kid driving the
elevator and eating a popsicle.
nobody’s allowed to leave here in a gown,
he said.
you just drive this thing, kid, I said,
we’ll worry about the gown.
Mike was all puffed-up, triple size
but I got him into the car somehow
and gave him a cigarette.
I stopped at the liquor store for 2 six packs
then went on in. I drank with Mike and his wife until
11 p.m.
then went upstairs…
where’s Mike? I asked his wife 3 days later,
you know he said he was going to wax my car.
Mike died, she said, he’s gone.
you mean he died? I asked.
yes, he died, she said.
I’m sorry, I said, I’m very sorry
it rained for a week after that and I figured the only
way I’d get the 5 back was to go to bed with his wife
but you know
she moved out 2 weeks later
an old guy with white hair moved in there
and he had one blind eye and played the French Horn.
there was no way I could make it with
him.
some people
some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they’ll find me there.
it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I’ll rise with a roar,
rant, rage—
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I’ll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.
father, who art in heaven—
my father was a practical man.
he had an idea.
you see, my son, he said,
I can pay for this house in my lifetime,
then it’s mine.
when I die I pass it on to you.
now in your lifetime you can acquire a house
and then you’ll have two houses
and you’ll pass those two houses on to your
son, and in his lifetime he acquires a house,
then when he dies, his son—
I get it, I said.
my father died while trying to drink a
glass of water. I buried him.
solid mahogany casket. after the funeral
I went to the racetrack, met a high yellow.
after the races we went to her apartment
for dinner and goodies.
I sold his house after about a month.
I sold his car and his furniture
and gave away all his paintings except one
and all his fruit jars
(filled with fruit boiled in the heat of summer)
and put his dog in the pound.
I dated his girlfriend twice
but getting nowhere
I gave it up.
I gambled and drank away the money.
now I live in a cheap front court in Hollywood
and take out the garbage to
hold down the rent.
my father was a practical man.
he choked on that glass of water
and saved on hospital
bills.
nerves
twitching in the sheets—
to face the sunlight again,
that’s clearly
trouble.
I like the city better when the
neon lights are going and
the nudies dance on top of the
bar
to the mauling music.
I’m under this sheet
thinking.
my nerves are hampered by
history—
the most memorable concern of mankind
is the guts it takes to
face the sunlight again.
love begins at the meeting of two
strangers. love for the world is
impossible. I’d rather stay in bed
and sleep.
dizzied by the days and the streets and the years
I pull the sheets to my neck.
I turn my ass to the wall.
I hate the mornings more than
any man.
the rent’s high too
there are beasts in the salt shaker
and airdromes in the coffeepot.
my mother’s hand is in the bag drawer
and from the backs of spoons come
the cries of tiny tortured animals.
in the closet stands a murdered man
wearing a new green necktie
and under the floor,
there’s a suffocating angel with flaring
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