a square something built of wood, he moved toward me

stiffly several times, smiling. I managed to walk off or lean over

the wall as if sick. he finally gave up.

and then there was one worse than any other,

strangely diseased beard, eyes always happy, wore purple and

red and yellow, very interested in life, always thrusting himself on

everybody, a very fine fellow.

meanwhile I had broken my small toe, right foot,

while drunk and so when he moved toward me

it was with much difficulty

that I had to walk away down the steps as if I had forgotten

my ham sandwich

or my collected works of Keats.

soon the parents began to understand

and they stood in their circles talking

and I stood alone in my circle

not talking.

there was one young teacher, female,

in room 6 who looked like she needed a good

lay

and since I am a very old and evil-looking man

I stared at her ass tits lips ears everything

whenever she came out of room

6. she hated me and that gave me some amusement

while I waited for my

daughter.

the last Saturday was the worst.

I arrived

hung over.

then, at noon, from room 3,

Barnsdall Park, they ran out

and I thought, fine, I’ll get the girl

and we’ll play Batman and Robin

eat ice cream and forget the Art con.

but Jesus, they all ran toward me—

the teacher, a rather blushing type, male,

probably a nice person, though, and all that,

but here they came

all running toward

me.

16 little girls between 5 and 9

and 12 little boys between 5 and 9,

and the Art teacher blushing

running

and they have 2 or 3 large plastic balloons

scrawled with peace signs and colorful

designs, and I can’t get out of the

way. my little girl is in there somewhere,

and I think, Jesus Christ, how phoney, how sickening.

how sickening the nice people are

and

it’s all Art-shit, the trick,

everybody loads their trick on somebody else

and then they let their helium-filled balloons fly

into the sky

and my little girl said,

“Hank, Hank, come here and watch!”

so I went there and watched

and the Art teacher said,

“What’s going to happen to them?

Tell me, what’s going to happen to them?”

and he blushed

and he was thinking of the 2 or 3

helium-filled balloons

with their peace signs

and I was thinking about the 16 little girls

between 5 and 9

and 12 little boys between 5 and 9,

and I took my kid’s hand

and I limped down the long stairway with her

(I had re-smashed the toe) and she said,

thinking about the balloons, “it’s kind of sad.”

and I said, “Yes, it is,” then we found my blue 1962

Comet. we got in together, it started,

and we turned left and drove down Hollywood Boulevard

past a carwash. “Look,” she said, “all those men in those

orange overalls rubbing those cars with rags. why do

they do that?”