the weak

are always proclaiming that

they are now going to concentrate

on their work, which is usually

painting or writing.

it is known, of course, that they have

talent, they simply haven’t…well…

they haven’t truly been given a

chance.

there were matters that got

in the way: bad affairs, children,

jobs, illness, etc.

but now, that’s all put aside, they

proclaim.

they are going to concentrate

on their work

they are finally going to do it

now.

they have the talent.

now the world will see.

oh yes, it’s going to happen.

the proclaimers are everywhere.

they are always getting

ready.

they seldom begin.

and when they do

they quit easily.

it’s all a whim with

them.

they want fame.

they want it quickly

but they really have no urge

to do their work

except for fame

and to proclaim,

proclaim,

proclaim.

a tough time

“I was a student of philosophy,”

said the guy at the end of the bar.

“good,” said a guy at the middle

of the bar.

“how’d you like to come down

here and lick my balls?”

it was a hot night and the

air conditioner had broken

down.

I wasn’t feeling good myself.

some university mag had

returned 15 of my poems with

a scrawled note:

“we don’t read in the

summer…”

it was something about the

note, the handwriting, the

lazy effrontery of it.

and at the track, on my big

bet of the day

the horse had thrown the

jock coming out of the

gate.

also, my left front tire had

a slow leak

and my wife had

PMS

again.

“I don’t think you have any

balls,” said the guy at the

end of the bar to the guy

at the middle of the

bar.

“oh yeah?” said the guy

accused of not having

any.

“yeah,” said the accuser.

life was in a very stupid phase

for me.

I mean, I wasn’t in a hospital,

I wasn’t having a tooth

pulled,

my taxes were paid and

my shoelaces were

tied

but I felt rubbed

against by nasty

forces.

nothing beautiful,

unusual or even decent

had happened to me

for weeks.

my fault?

maybe.

“you can suck my ass,”

said the guy accused of

not having any balls.

“I can see you have an

ass,” said the student of

philosophy, “because

I can see it sitting up

where your head

should be.”

“listen, fellow,” came the

response, “if you’re looking

for a knuckle sandwich

you came to the right

guy.”

they are not reading in

the summer, I thought,

what are they doing,

lolling in a hammock

lofting farts into a

gentle breeze?

free drinks for Dylan

Thomas and a

scurrilous note for

me.

“you and whose army

is going to handle

me?”

said the guy at the

end of the bar.

“I’m the army!

me!”

“that right?

you better get the

navy too, man!”

you ever read the