or we’re whores who can’t score.

I would like a little more kindness and warmth

in the structure of things.

I became a writer but when I was a boy

I used to dream of becoming the village idiot,

I used to lie in bed and imagine myself that careless idiot,

planning ways to get food and sympathy easily,

a planned confusion of not too much love or

effort.

some would claim that I have succeeded

in this.

dead

he wrote a joyous and mad

novel about unbelievable and

romantic episodes

and his words danced with

laughter and mockery and

gamble.

the novel made him

famous and he went on

to write others but none

like the first.

then he stopped

writing, came here from

his native land

and became a professor

at a southern

university.

he wears his suit, his

tie, his dignity

as tokens of

respectability

as his students wait

for him to go wild,

to break down the

walls,

to smash glass,

precedence,

minds.

but the semesters

pass, quiet

seasons.

R.I.P.

a re-evaluation

he told me he

had 6 kids

had been

married

5 times and that next

Wednesday

he would be

38 years

old.

I had always thought of him

as

one of the sharpest

valets at

racetrack

parking

but then

I’ve always been better at

picking horses

than at

picking

people.

snake-eyes

William Saroyan

married the same

woman

twice

which means

he must have

forgotten

something

about the

first

time

around.

anyhow, he claimed

it ruined his

life.

but,

actually,

there are

many things

which can

ruin

a man’s

life

just

depending upon

which one

gets to him

first.

our world

it’s strange, isn’t it?

you can’t

compare it to

anything

else

yet you quickly

learn

that there is

something wrong

with it

and with the people

that

inhabit it.

you want to

be objective

and fair

but when you

see what it

does to us

and the choices

it leaves

us—

the streets you must

walk,

what you hear

and see,

endure

day by day

year by year,

night and

day—

god damn it,

you have nothing to

compare that with

either

so you really

can’t call it

awful

but why does

it seem

to be?

for example

putting

your shoes on

in the morning

is like having

to walk

through

mountains.

yes,

it must be

us.

we must be

sick.

that must

be

it

although we have

nothing to

compare us

with

either.

sick.

unperceptive.

born into this wondrous

light and

glory

and then gagging

on it,

puking it

away

as the bees

and the butterflies

transport

ever more,

their bloody

pollen.

how to get rid of the purists

several months ago I was sent some tapes

by a musician who had put several of

my poems to music.

he professed much interest in my

poesy.

I played the tapes on the way to the track

and back.

very classical (and I am a classical music