grandma moses would have wanted it

thus—

early to rise with

tear-stained eyes

let me take you away from all this:

there is a place behind the hills

where trees are shaped like

guillotines

and mandolins have mouths like

broken bottles

a franc is worth one hundred centimes in

Luxembourg

my daughter will die in

2037

I will die in 1998

and flying fish will still continue to

fly.

Dreiser wasn’t so hot either

he is really a nice fellow

of good heart

but I don’t know what to do

with him:

he is bitten by too much

enthusiasm.

and I have no desire to

hurt him.

he phones often.

“I’m working on my novel,” he’ll

say.

“good,” I’ll

answer.

“123 pages…”

“good…”

“you remember what you told

me?” he will

say.

“what?”

“‘never write until you really

have to, never write until it

leaps on you and grabs you

by the throat.’”

“yes…”

“I waited and now I’m up to

page

123…”

then he’ll talk about other

things, and then

a lot more about the

novel.

then it will be

over.

“was that Harry?” my wife will

ask.

“yes, it was Harry…”

a day or so will pass,

I’ll drive in from

the track

and my wife will

say, “Harry phoned.”

“ah…”

“he talked about his

novel…”

“123 pages…”

“135 pages…he also

said he created

a couple of

new

characters.”

“yes, he told me and

I told him that it was

all right: it’s

fiction…”

“he tells us both the

same things,” my wife

says.

“yes…”

usually Harry phones

in the mornings, I only

wish he’d wait until

nightfall

but

he’s excited.

it could be a good

novel, maybe it

is, I hope so,

only

I wish he wouldn’t

talk about it

all the

time.

“I wish he wouldn’t talk

about

the novel,” I tell my

wife.

“why don’t you tell

him?”

“Christ, I can’t totally

discourage this

guy!”

“he likes you,

so tell him…”

“look, F. Scott Fitzgerald used

to read his stuff

to his woman

right after he wrote

it.

that’s

even worse than

talking about

it.”

“but

you once said

F. Scott Fitzgerald

was the most over-rated

writer of

our time…”

“I just can’t tell Harry

to

stop talking about

his novel,” I reply.

“he’s your friend…”

“maybe he’s your friend,”

I tell her.

“but

I’m no writer…”

“for this,” I tell her,

“let us bless the

gods and everything

else.”

cruising

totally mentally ripped,

driving the streets in the afternoon,

stopping at signals,

looking at people walking on the

sidewalks,

it’s reality but a reality that has

faded away.

you know your judgment is

warped but you don’t give a

damn.

too long on earth, that’s it,

that’s your problem.

a story told too often.

the signal changes and you

cross the avenue,

enter a side street,

drive along

the houses are small and

sad,