in a Mexican whorehouse

this gal with her little bowl and her rag

washing my dick,

and it got hard and she laughed and I

laughed and she

kissed it, gently and slowly, then she walked over and

spread out

on the bed

and I got on and we worked easily, no effort, no

tension, and some guy beat on the door and

yelled,

“Hey! what the hell’s going on in there?

Hurry it up!”

but it was like a Mahler symphony—you just don’t

rush

it.

when I finished and she came back, there was

the bowl and the rag again

and we both laughed; then she kissed it

gently and

slowly, and I got up and put my clothes back on and

walked out—

“Jesus, buddy, what the hell were ya doin’ in

there?”

“Fuckin’,” I told the gentleman

and walked down the hall and down the steps and stood

outside in the road and lit one of those

sweet Mexican cigarettes in the moonlight.

liberated and human again

for a mere $3, I

loved the night, Mexico and

myself.

madman

while

being

checked into the L.A. City jail (I

was still a bit drunk)

there was a crowd of prisoners waiting and

nobody noticed me smoking a cigarette

until some ash dropped off the end

then a cop screamed at me about how

“we kept this fucking place CLEAN!”

“oh,” I said, and then the cop said,

“wise fucker, huh?…O.K., now you

get it!”

and he pushed me into a back room and

locked the door behind

me.

there behind a thick yellow floor-to-ceiling

wire screen was this total

madman

he saw me and screamed

ran violently toward me

smashed into the wire screen

bounced back

rushed the wire again

grabbing it

shaking it

wanting to get through it

trying to get at me

trying to kill me

it was frightening

but I was drunk

found another cigarette

lit it trembling

pushed it through the wire

expecting to get my hand ripped

off

he took the smoke

put it to his lips

inhaled

exhaled

I lit up

also

and we stood there together

smoking.

that’s the way the cop

found us

when he opened the door

behind

me.

“son of a bitch,” he said, “that’s

beautiful, I wish I could let

you go for that.”

“I wish you could too,”

I told him.

“come on,” he

said.

as we walked out the door

the madman grabbed the wire again and

screamed

screamed

screamed

he rattled and banged the

wire

that thick wire

with the yellow paint flaking off

revealing the

pale grey paint

underneath.

nazi

suicide

in a

wino hotel

turn him on his

back

find the front

of him

chest

arms

sailing ships

snakes

girls

and even such

words as

love

Annie, words such as

Mother

and the secret tattoo

on the neck

that only jailbirds

know

he’s picked cotton

rode the freights

worked the track gangs