there is always somebody to chop wood

for you,

to speak of

God,

there is always somebody to kill the

meat,

to unplug the toilet,

there is always somebody to bury

you,

there are always animals with

beautiful eyes,

and there are always those

like Stanley leaning toward me

and saying in a soft voice,

“do you know that at the end of

his career Saroyan had other

people writing his stuff and that he

gave them twenty-five

percent?”

this was supposed to make me

feel original,

feel good because I was a starving

writer and the rejects were arriving

in record numbers.

it didn’t make me feel

good.

there is always somebody or something

to make

you feel worse.

there is always the dead dog on

the freeway.

there is always a fog full of

cutting

blades.

there is always Christ drunk in

the tavern with dirty

fingernails.

my friend, the parking lot attendant

—he’s a dandy

—small moustache

—usually sucking on a cigar

he tends to lean into cars as he

transacts business

first time I met him, he said,

“hey! ya gonna make a

killin’?”

“maybe,” I answered.

next meeting it was:

“hey, Ramrod! what’s

happening?”

“very little,” I told

him.

next time I had my girlfriend with me

and he just

grinned.

next time I was

alone.

“hey,” he asked, “where’s the young

chick?”

“I left her at home….”

“Bullshit! I’ll bet she dumped

you!”

and the next time

he really leaned into the car:

“what’s a guy like you doing driving a

BMW? I’ll bet you inherited your

money, you didn’t get this car with your

brains!”

“how’d you guess?” I

answered.

that was some weeks ago.

I haven’t seen him lately.

fellow like that, chances are he just moved on

to better

things.

last will and testament

you stop agonizing for a while

thinking that maybe life’s true

essence has risen to the

top (temporarily)

or that a minor decency,

a minor sensibility

has taken a gentle

hold.

but it’s illusion, all

illusion:

the crap is still crap,

the old structure remains

firmly

in place,

you’re going to have to

endure

the same hollow ghosts

of love,

the same cardboard

faces,

the same eyeless

eyes,

the old dark,

the same old dark,

the same knock

on the door

with nobody on the

other

side.

we are not without

joy,

we have what we

need here,

and my wish is simple

enough,

although it may

not be granted:

that the living dead

of this life

will not soon

die

and then follow,

after the graciousness

of death

hopefully rescues me

from the monstrous

weight of

this drizzling

suckerfish

nightmare.

12 minutes to post

as we stand there before the purple mountains

in our stupid clothing, we pause, look

about: nothing changes, it only congeals,

our lives crawl slowly, our companions depreciate

us.

then

we awaken a moment—

the animals are entering the track!