bore
me.”
“no, baby, you got it
backwards…”
“oh, shut up.”
then in would walk some dandy, some fellow
neat in a suit, pencil mustache, bow tie;
he would be slim, light, delicate
and so knowing
and the ladies would call his
name: “oh, Murray, Murray!”
or some such.
“hi, girls!”
I knew I could deck one of those
fuckers but that hardly mattered in the
scheme of things,
the ladies just gathered around Murray
(or some such) and I just kept ordering
drinks,
sharing the juke music with them
and listening to the laughter from
the outside.
I wondered what wonderful things
I was missing, the secret of the
magic, something that only they knew,
and I felt myself again the idiot in the
schoolyard, sometimes a man never got out
of there—he was marked, it could be told
at a glance
and so
I was shut out,
“I am the lost face of
Janus,” I might say at some
momentary silence.
of course, to be
ignored.
they’d pile out
to cars parked in back
smoking
laughing
finally to drive off
to some consummate
victory
leaving me
to keep on drinking
just me
sitting there
then the face of the
bartender near
mine:
“LAST CALL!”
his meaty indifferent face
cheap in the cheap
light
to have my last drink
go out to my ten year old car
at the curb
get in
to drive ever so carefully
to my rented
room
remembering the schoolyard
again,
recess time,
being chosen next to last
on the baseball team,
the same sun shining on me
as on them,
now it was night,
most people of the world
together.
my cigarette dangling,
I heard the sound of the
engine.
the editor
he sat in the kitchen at the breakfastnook table
reading the manuscripts writing a short rejection
on each replacing the paperclip then
sliding the pages back into the brown
manila envelopes.
he’d been reading for an hour and thirty-five
minutes and hadn’t found a single poem
well he’d have to do the usual thing
for the next issue: write the poems himself and
make up names for the authors.
where was the talent?
for the last 3 decades the poets had
flattened
out it was like reading stuff
from a house of
subnormals.
but
he’d save Rabowski
for last
Rabowski had sent 8 or ten poems in a batch
but always there were one or two
good ones.
he sighed and pulled out the Rabowski
poems.
he slowly read them he finished
he got up went to the refrigerator
got out
a can of beer cracked it sat back
down
he read the poems all over again they were
all bad even Rabowski had
crapped out.
the editor got out a printed rejection slip
wrote “you must have had a bad
week.”
then he slipped the poems back into the
manila envelope sealed it tossed it
on top of the pile for mailing
then he took the beer sat down next to his wife
on the couch
she was watching Johnny Carson
he watched
Carson was bad Carson knew he was bad but
he couldn’t do anything about
it.
the editor got up with his can of beer and
began walking up the
stairway.
“where are you going?” his wife
asked.
“to bed to sleep.”
“but it’s early.”
“god damn it I know that!”
“well you needn’t act that way
about it!”
he walked into the bedroom flicked on
the wall switch
there was a small bright flash and then
the overhead light burned
out.
he sat on the edge of the bed and finished his
beer in the
dark.
duck and forget it
today at the track
I was standing alone
looking down
when I saw these
two shoes
moving directly
toward
me
at once
I started into motion
toward my right
but he still caught part of
me:
“making any money
today?”
“yeah,” I answered and
was gone.
not too many years ago
I would have stood
there
while this slipped
soul
unloaded his
inanities on
me
pissing over my day
and my feelings
as he made me pay
for where he
me.”
“no, baby, you got it
backwards…”
“oh, shut up.”
then in would walk some dandy, some fellow
neat in a suit, pencil mustache, bow tie;
he would be slim, light, delicate
and so knowing
and the ladies would call his
name: “oh, Murray, Murray!”
or some such.
“hi, girls!”
I knew I could deck one of those
fuckers but that hardly mattered in the
scheme of things,
the ladies just gathered around Murray
(or some such) and I just kept ordering
drinks,
sharing the juke music with them
and listening to the laughter from
the outside.
I wondered what wonderful things
I was missing, the secret of the
magic, something that only they knew,
and I felt myself again the idiot in the
schoolyard, sometimes a man never got out
of there—he was marked, it could be told
at a glance
and so
I was shut out,
“I am the lost face of
Janus,” I might say at some
momentary silence.
of course, to be
ignored.
they’d pile out
to cars parked in back
smoking
laughing
finally to drive off
to some consummate
victory
leaving me
to keep on drinking
just me
sitting there
then the face of the
bartender near
mine:
“LAST CALL!”
his meaty indifferent face
cheap in the cheap
light
to have my last drink
go out to my ten year old car
at the curb
get in
to drive ever so carefully
to my rented
room
remembering the schoolyard
again,
recess time,
being chosen next to last
on the baseball team,
the same sun shining on me
as on them,
now it was night,
most people of the world
together.
my cigarette dangling,
I heard the sound of the
engine.
the editor
he sat in the kitchen at the breakfastnook table
reading the manuscripts writing a short rejection
on each replacing the paperclip then
sliding the pages back into the brown
manila envelopes.
he’d been reading for an hour and thirty-five
minutes and hadn’t found a single poem
well he’d have to do the usual thing
for the next issue: write the poems himself and
make up names for the authors.
where was the talent?
for the last 3 decades the poets had
flattened
out it was like reading stuff
from a house of
subnormals.
but
he’d save Rabowski
for last
Rabowski had sent 8 or ten poems in a batch
but always there were one or two
good ones.
he sighed and pulled out the Rabowski
poems.
he slowly read them he finished
he got up went to the refrigerator
got out
a can of beer cracked it sat back
down
he read the poems all over again they were
all bad even Rabowski had
crapped out.
the editor got out a printed rejection slip
wrote “you must have had a bad
week.”
then he slipped the poems back into the
manila envelope sealed it tossed it
on top of the pile for mailing
then he took the beer sat down next to his wife
on the couch
she was watching Johnny Carson
he watched
Carson was bad Carson knew he was bad but
he couldn’t do anything about
it.
the editor got up with his can of beer and
began walking up the
stairway.
“where are you going?” his wife
asked.
“to bed to sleep.”
“but it’s early.”
“god damn it I know that!”
“well you needn’t act that way
about it!”
he walked into the bedroom flicked on
the wall switch
there was a small bright flash and then
the overhead light burned
out.
he sat on the edge of the bed and finished his
beer in the
dark.
duck and forget it
today at the track
I was standing alone
looking down
when I saw these
two shoes
moving directly
toward
me
at once
I started into motion
toward my right
but he still caught part of
me:
“making any money
today?”
“yeah,” I answered and
was gone.
not too many years ago
I would have stood
there
while this slipped
soul
unloaded his
inanities on
me
pissing over my day
and my feelings
as he made me pay
for where he
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