to the parking lot,
jumped into their cars and gunned them to
the exits.
the police couldn’t tell who was who,
who was in what car.
red and blue shorts
was one of the first out in a yellow
convertible.
the officers managed to stop a few cars, all the wrong
ones.
the restaurant, one of the very best in town, took
a huge financial and public relations hit.
it was one of those special places
in the better part of town
where the famous, the talented and the rich
preferred to dine
and where they could
on occasion
let off a little
steam.
HE SHOWED ME HIS BACK
I had worked there 14 years, mostly
on the night shift, eleven-and-one-half
hours a night.
one day out at the track this fellow
walked up to me.
“hey, man,” he said to me, “how are you?”
“hello,” I answered.
I didn’t remember him,
there had been 3 or 4 thousand of us working
together in that building.
“I wondered what happened to you,”
he went on, “did you retire?”
“no, I quit,” I told him.
“you quit? then what’d you
do?”
“I wrote some books.
I got lucky.”
without a further word he turned
and walked off
he thought it was bullshit.
well, maybe it was,
but at least it was my bullshit, not
his.
THE UNFOLDING
I don’t know
but I think sometimes that fellows like
Ezra and Céline and Ernie, Babe Ruth, Dillinger,
DiMaggio, Joe Louis, Kennedy, LaMotta,
Graziano, Willie Pep and Roosevelt
just had a little more than the
rest of us.
or is it just ballyhoo and nostalgia
which seems to separate them from
us?
actually, there are probably others
here among us
who are better at what they do
(or at least just as good)
as our heroes of the past
but
for us now
they are too close—
we pass them in the hall
see them waiting at stop lights
or buying
Xmas trees and windshield wipers
or we see them
standing quietly in line at the
post office.
one of the few grand things
in this life
are the brave and talented people
living
among
us
unnoticed.
life has both kind
and unkind
ways.
DRUNK BEFORE NOON
she knew Hemingway in Cuba
and she took a photo of him one day
drunk before noon—
stretched out on the floor
face puffed with drink
gut hanging out
hardly looking
macho
at all.
he heard the click of the camera,
lifted his head a bit from the
floor and
said, “honey,
please
don’t ever publish that
photo!”
I have the photo framed now
on the south wall
facing the door.
the lady gifted me
this.
now her book has just been
published in Italy and is
called
Hemingway
.
there are many photos:
Hemingway with the lady and her
dog.
Hemingway’s work
room.
Hemingway’s library with mounted water buffalo
head.
Hemingway feeding a
cat.
Hemingway’s bed.
Hemingway and Mary, Venezia, 31
Ottobre 1948.
Hemingway, Venezia, Marzo
1954.
but
no photo
of Hemingway
soused before
noon.
for a man who was very good
with the word
the lady kept
hers.
THUMBS UP, THUMBS DOWN
“the acting was really good, wasn’t
it?” she asks.
“no,” I answer, “I didn’t like it.”
“oh?” she says.
I didn’t know what else to say.
once again we have disagreed on
a performance.
this time it was on tv.
I rise from the couch.
“please let the cat in,” she says.
I let the cat in.
then I walk up the stairway.
I won’t see my wife again until bedtime.
I sit here, light a cigar.
I can’t help it, it’s difficult for me to
like much of what is being currently
written and performed.
my wife tends to blame my
childhood, a certainly restricted and
loveless
upbringing.
yet I tend to believe, that in spite of
this, I still have the ability to make good
judgments.
well, things could be worse:
earthquake, a 6-day rain, a run-
over
cat.
I lean back, draw deeply on the
cigar, then let it all out:
a wondrous cloud of blue-gray
smoke
as my insufficient critical soul winks at
eternity and then
yawns.
THEY ARE AFTER ME
more and more I get
jumped into their cars and gunned them to
the exits.
the police couldn’t tell who was who,
who was in what car.
red and blue shorts
was one of the first out in a yellow
convertible.
the officers managed to stop a few cars, all the wrong
ones.
the restaurant, one of the very best in town, took
a huge financial and public relations hit.
it was one of those special places
in the better part of town
where the famous, the talented and the rich
preferred to dine
and where they could
on occasion
let off a little
steam.
HE SHOWED ME HIS BACK
I had worked there 14 years, mostly
on the night shift, eleven-and-one-half
hours a night.
one day out at the track this fellow
walked up to me.
“hey, man,” he said to me, “how are you?”
“hello,” I answered.
I didn’t remember him,
there had been 3 or 4 thousand of us working
together in that building.
“I wondered what happened to you,”
he went on, “did you retire?”
“no, I quit,” I told him.
“you quit? then what’d you
do?”
“I wrote some books.
I got lucky.”
without a further word he turned
and walked off
he thought it was bullshit.
well, maybe it was,
but at least it was my bullshit, not
his.
THE UNFOLDING
I don’t know
but I think sometimes that fellows like
Ezra and Céline and Ernie, Babe Ruth, Dillinger,
DiMaggio, Joe Louis, Kennedy, LaMotta,
Graziano, Willie Pep and Roosevelt
just had a little more than the
rest of us.
or is it just ballyhoo and nostalgia
which seems to separate them from
us?
actually, there are probably others
here among us
who are better at what they do
(or at least just as good)
as our heroes of the past
but
for us now
they are too close—
we pass them in the hall
see them waiting at stop lights
or buying
Xmas trees and windshield wipers
or we see them
standing quietly in line at the
post office.
one of the few grand things
in this life
are the brave and talented people
living
among
us
unnoticed.
life has both kind
and unkind
ways.
DRUNK BEFORE NOON
she knew Hemingway in Cuba
and she took a photo of him one day
drunk before noon—
stretched out on the floor
face puffed with drink
gut hanging out
hardly looking
macho
at all.
he heard the click of the camera,
lifted his head a bit from the
floor and
said, “honey,
please
don’t ever publish that
photo!”
I have the photo framed now
on the south wall
facing the door.
the lady gifted me
this.
now her book has just been
published in Italy and is
called
Hemingway
.
there are many photos:
Hemingway with the lady and her
dog.
Hemingway’s work
room.
Hemingway’s library with mounted water buffalo
head.
Hemingway feeding a
cat.
Hemingway’s bed.
Hemingway and Mary, Venezia, 31
Ottobre 1948.
Hemingway, Venezia, Marzo
1954.
but
no photo
of Hemingway
soused before
noon.
for a man who was very good
with the word
the lady kept
hers.
THUMBS UP, THUMBS DOWN
“the acting was really good, wasn’t
it?” she asks.
“no,” I answer, “I didn’t like it.”
“oh?” she says.
I didn’t know what else to say.
once again we have disagreed on
a performance.
this time it was on tv.
I rise from the couch.
“please let the cat in,” she says.
I let the cat in.
then I walk up the stairway.
I won’t see my wife again until bedtime.
I sit here, light a cigar.
I can’t help it, it’s difficult for me to
like much of what is being currently
written and performed.
my wife tends to blame my
childhood, a certainly restricted and
loveless
upbringing.
yet I tend to believe, that in spite of
this, I still have the ability to make good
judgments.
well, things could be worse:
earthquake, a 6-day rain, a run-
over
cat.
I lean back, draw deeply on the
cigar, then let it all out:
a wondrous cloud of blue-gray
smoke
as my insufficient critical soul winks at
eternity and then
yawns.
THEY ARE AFTER ME
more and more I get
Similar Books
