“that’s so they can stay alive,” I told

her.

“that’s sad too,” she said.

that’s right, it was sad, it was their

Art, with very little blushing,

just work and wait and work and wait

as the sun is wasted

as they are wasted.

when we got to my place

she showed me her paintings and I said

“very nice, can I have this one?”

and she said, “sure.”

I hung it on the wall.

it’s looking at me now.

it’s a girl’s face done all in red

and the mouth is speaking. it says

“o.k.,” then it says

“no.”

that’s Art—Batman, Robin or

Plato couldn’t have said it any

better.

payoff

I was to give a poetry reading

at a Venice coffeehouse

but we got there early

so I told the woman,

let’s walk down by the sea

and I can drink a beer,

so we walked down through the sand

and there were some men there fishing

and I faced the ocean

and had a good drink

and then I said,

let’s go back and walk along the boardwalk

and we walked east

and then I noticed a man standing alone

with his back to the sea.

and he lifted a horn,

played a quiet and brief melody, and

stopped.

then he simply stood there

with his back to the sea.

I had another drink

and we walked on.

then, on the way back,

he was still there

and he lifted the horn again

and played the same

quiet, sad melody, finished,

and holding the horn down at his side,

he stood there.

it was hot in the coffeehouse

and I threw my stuff at them

and got away with

it, climbed down

and then we were back in the car

driving toward my

place. “you read well,” she said.

“yeah,” I said, “thanks.”

but for me, the horn player had won the night,

and I felt the roll of bills in my pocket,

the payoff, and

I knew that night I had met a better man

and the better man had

won, and that was as it should

have been. but only the two of us

knew it.

ding-dong

he came over with a turban tied around his

head, and the long end of that turban

dangled down by his side

like a bell-cord.

it often got in his way

as he tried to light a cigarette

or lift his drink.

his girlfriend was dressed in a

fur outfit

that came down and covered her

feet.

her eyes were large and nice

and seemed always near

tears.

but she was

quiet.

he wasn’t.

he jumped up often

spilling his drink on his

flowered shirt

he was six-feet-four and

worse than a bore.

it was at my place

and there were others

there.

I grabbed him by his belt and

pulled him to one side and

said, “what the fuck are you