maybe killed somebody

suicide in a

wino hotel:

now he’s killed

somebody

turn him on his

back

find the front

of him

tears of the mountains

prints of the lonely fox

God’s mark

like a swastika

16 Jap machine gun bullets

Norman

Jimmy

Max killed in World War II

while I hid in old roominghouses

in Philadelphia and San

Francisco

listening to

Mozart and Bach.

others fared differently:

with George it was a bad

liver. Dale died of misled

ambition. Nick went the common hard way of

cancer.

Harry of a

wife and 5 beautiful children.

Jimmy had it right—

trying to bring that bomber back to

England with the motors shot

out. Norman had it

right—

taking 3 hours to die from

16 Jap machine gun bullets.

now we’ve all got it quite right—

sitting around reading the

comic strips

drinking warm wine and

rolling smokes.

at 6 in the evening we charm our blood and

our manner

as we walk our faces through the

spiderwebs.

we’ve got it right

we’ve got it right—

the raven and the waves

the tired sunsets and the tired

people—

it takes a lifetime to die and

no time at

all.

bar stool

each day and each night were

about the same.

the bartender let me in at

5 a.m.

I had to listen to his stories

as he mopped the place up

and got things

ready

but the drinks were free

until 7 a.m. when the bar

opened.

the 7 a.m. crowd was a

good one,

I could usually work them

for some drinks

but by 8:15 a.m. there were

few patrons left.

I had to nurse my drinks

and wait.

I used the few coins I had

to keep the drinks slowly

arriving.

the painful time came

when I ran out of

coin.

the trick was to never

empty your glass.

it was a rule: as long as

you had something in

your glass you

stayed.

sometimes the time

really bludgeoned

me

and my damned

tongue was hanging

out too.

at noon a few

more would drift in,

they all knew

me.

I put on a good

late night

show—

wild sentences of

gibberish,

fist fights,

even a few

profound

statements,

and the times

I had money

I bought for

everybody.

I was the nut.

the good guy.

the bad

guy.

but in the daylight

hours I had

no zip.

those were the

hard hours.

I had to milk

those drab suckers

for

drinks.

one way or the other

I got them,

ran errands,

got a little

coin.

as the afternoon

went toward

evening

things began to

get better,

I got drunker,

more inventive,

more interesting,

it got into party

time,

good luck

time.

and the nights

were great.

drinks arrived

before me

and I had no

idea where they

had

come

from.

sometimes the

nights and the days

got mixed up.

I seemed to be

sitting in daylight

and then it was

dark all at once,

or it worked the