have no heart.

the asphalt boils under

your wheels

and there’s no place to

go,

no surprise, no wonderment.

too long on earth, old

dog, you are dirtied with

life.

you circle back to the

avenue,

park behind a taco

stand, get out,

walk to the counter,

wait.

a heavy girl approaches.

she stands, looks at

you.

you pretend to be

composed.

“coffee,” you say,

“small, black…”

she smiles at you.

the smile says:

I know you’re crazy

but it’s all

right.

you get the coffee,

take it back to the

car.

you are facing a

dirty dark yellow

wall.

you sip the

coffee:

bitter horrible

swill.

you drink half a

cup, dump it out the

window, back out of

there

and then you’re

driving west.

a psychiatrist won’t

help,

a psychologist won’t

help,

a god won’t

help.

drinking’s old

and drugs make it

worse.

you just drive in your

car.

for a hundred years.

for centuries.

your head ripped

rising up through

the sun

roof

lolling on a long snake

neck

smiling a bloody

smile,

paradise at

last.

the way it is

almost everybody here is on

drugs

but the real pros

continue to function

all day and into the

night,

handling their affairs,

getting their clean laundry,

paying some of the

bills,

going on,

like that,

it’s a comedy,

almost an accepted

way of life.

this neighborhood is

full of them,

they walk in and out of their

houses and jump into their

cars, they appear to be

ordinary citizens

unless you really

know them.

they have children,

they vote sometimes,

they watch tv,

they appear to be

normal citizens

and what they are

finally becomes normal

for them,

hundreds of people

in this neighborhood

drugged

continually.

it’s a quietly accepted

fact.

they need the stuff to

go on,

we all know this

but nothing is ever

said about it

as the police

(paid by

the taxes of the

users)

bust the

asses of the

sellers

in this quiet

lovely

little

neighborhood.

a final word on no final word

near the end of the interview he leaned forward and

asked, “now is there any final word you’d like to leave with

your audience?”

“no,” I answered, “no final word.”

I felt his disappointment.

“no final word?” he asked again.

“no,” I said.

he had wanted a nice closer, he had wanted me to save

his ass,

he had wanted me to save the ass of my audience.

well, I had worked hard enough to save my own ass.

“o.k.,” he recovered himself and said to me, “it’s been

a real pleasure to interview

you.”

“sure, baby,” I said.

then he motioned to the camera and sound men that

it was over

and they began packing their

gear.

“you fellows care for a drink?” I asked.

“no thanks.” the interviewer spoke for everybody, they were

pulling plugs from the walls, folding equipment into