you mean these things don’t

happen to you? he asked.

I mean, with your

woman?

never, I told him.

no problems? she respects you?

he asked.

she adores me, I said, the way

I speak, walk, talk, my

glow, the whole bundle.

I don’t believe you,

he said.

you shouldn’t, I

answered.

why do women act

like that? he

asked.

it’s love, I answered,

they care.

maybe it would be better

if they hated us?

he asked.

they do, I said.

I just wish they’d treat us

with the same respect they

treat strangers, he

said.

we couldn’t stand that,

I said.

you mean we get what we

need? he asked.

we need what we get, I

told him.

is there anything else?

he asked.

not today, I said, we’ve

been talking an hour—

that’s $150.

I think you’ve

compounded my

problems, he

said.

maybe, I told him, and

that’s why you should

come again

next week.

I guess so, he

said.

I’ll see you then, I told

him, good

day.

the dangling carrot

the perfect poem will never be

written.

I back out the driveway at

11 a.m.,

swing around,

wave to my wife,

drive down the hill and into

the world.

the perfect poem will never be

written,

never be written

here

anywhere

on a page,

in the street,

on the wall

in Paris

in Peru

in the men’s room,

in the train station,

on a billboard,

on the head of a pin,

the perfect poem will never be

written.

for this,

let us thank the gods.

preparation

you’ve got to burn

straight up and down

and then maybe sidewise

for a while

and have your guts

scrambled by a

bully

and the demonic

ladies,

you’ve got to run

along the edge of

madness

teetering,

you’ve got to drink a

river of booze,

you’ve got to starve

like a winter

alleycat,

you’ve got to live

with the imbecility

of at least a dozen

cities,

then maybe

maybe

maybe

you might know

where you are

for a tiny

blinking

moment.

freeway

the seven suns dimmed into one

and the last porpoise rose to

the surface

as I shifted into high

gear

while racing the man in the

white late model

Porsche.

drums banged in my brain,

the blood flowed down to

my toes

as I pushed the

accelerator

down to the floor,

I was gaining

inching up

as Mount Shasta

exploded into a

beautiful

day.

5

the big guy doesn’t have me out of here yet

the new homeless

I’ve

been driving down this tree-lined street for

12 years or so

on my way to wherever, past

the rich homes, the pony trails, past

the lush smell of money and

security.

but now

in these strangest of times,

parts of the structure suddenly

topple,

taking with it some of the modestly

rich

on a long

dark ride.

others remain untouched,