I think that I am—

I just burnt my fingers on

this

cigarette.

last call

totally written out at 2 a.m.

but not worried about picking up a

lady

or driving home in a police

car.

all I have to do is to toddle into

the next room

flop on the bed

and sleep it away.

the good wife will check my

breathing.

you can end safe

but you can’t start safe.

you’ve got to earn your stripes

first

with the gods.

and even then

you can’t stay safe too

long.

I’ll go crazy at least

4 more times before I

earn my gravestone,

but meanwhile

I’ll toddle off

as the gods smile

and say,

“Jesus Christ, is this the same

guy who fought monsters

in dark alleys for the mere sake

of

entertainment?”

there’s some damn fool

out there

who will take my

place

one

day.

meanwhile, look, there’s a

gulp of beer left

and an upside-down

universe.

you be safe for a while,

I’ll cut the swath.

you can’t all be me

but at least

try not to be

them.

please.

undecent

brisk, brisk, brisk.

bullets and lives.

shot.

as the blackbird

sits on the

wire.

as department

store neckties

wait to be sold.

as you think of

something

as nothing

thinks of you.

the kite floats

in the wind

and the madman

is right.

one of those

Sartre was some fellow, oh yes,

he showed us the bone of

Nowhere and shook it in

our face.

the choice

is yours,

he said,

morals died with God,

you’re on your

own.

every now and then,

during the passing centuries,

some giant among men

arises,

shakes us truly,

shocks us out of our

sleep,

so that, at least for a

time, we become aware,

renewed

as we put our shoes on in

the morning,

as we trundle through our

tasks,

as we eat, defecate,

imagine love,

mail letters,

drive and walk the

city,

things and thoughts

assume different

shapes.

Sartre was one of those

giants.

Paris, France, much of the

world

rumbled and bounced

because of

him.

without some like him,

putting your shoes on in

the morning

would become so difficult

as to be almost

impossible.

Jean Paul,

thanks

for

everything.

candy-ass

the best part is that

after you have written 6 or 7 good poems in

one night

you can celebrate,

play,

write a candy-ass poem.

you can deliberately try to be bad,

that’s fun,

most do it without trying.

that anger you?

good.

hope it makes your mother angry

too.

many mothers get angry about what I

write.

when they stop getting angry I’m

going to pack it in,

join the boy scouts.

my mother-in-law says to my

wife,

“but WHY does he have to use the

LANGUAGE he does?”

well, dear, it’s just to piss you

off, get your anger up.

life has abused me and I have misused

it.