but in today’s newspaper I read

that some of these 850,000 dollar homes

have been built over a landfill.

driveways are cracking,

back yards are sinking,

houses are tilting, walls and

foundations are cracking,

there are loud explosions in the

night.

there are sink-holes in the ground

from which emanate

stinking gasses which may

be poisonous and

explosive.

the trees are dying and

nothing will grow in the

yards.

the homes are unsalable

but still taxed at the

former level.

even the pony trails are

sagging, dangerous.

the horses stay in their

collapsing stables…

these were the people

who thought they had

beat the

system,

made the educated and

intelligent

choices.

now, they are

finished.

and the builders and the

realtors

who swindled them

are long

gone

to safer, richer

climes.

America the beautiful

suddenly turned

ugly.

time after time,

in life after life,

in way after way,

some will

always be

classically

screwed.

the mail

the mail gets heavier.

more and more letters telling me

what a great writer I

am,

plus poems, novels, novelettes,

short stories, paintings.

some just want an autograph,

a drawing, a word.

others suggest an ongoing

correspondence.

I read everything, dump everything,

go about my

business.

I am aware that no man is

a “great” writer.

he may have been a

great writer,

but it’s a process which

begins again and over

again

and all the praise,

the cigars, the bottles of

wine sent in

honor

will not get the next

line down,

and that’s all that counts,

the past is

useless,

now is in the laps of

the gods

as the centuries fall

away

in their rotten

swift

luxury.

killing life

minor and trivial complaints,

constantly aired,

might drive a saint mad,

let alone a common good

old boy (me).

and worse, those who

complain

are hardly aware they do it

unless finally told

and even finally told

they don’t believe it.

and so nothing leads

anywhere

and it’s just another day

wasted,

kicked in the ass,

mutilated

while the Buddha

sits in the corner

smiling.

wait, it will find us

a day at the track,

followed by a swim in the

pool,

followed by 5 minutes in the

spa,

followed by a shower,

followed by opening the mail

(not very interesting

mail)

then the good wife

recounts some portion of

her day,

the seven cats greet me

one by one

and the evening has

begun.

from original hell to this.

can I bear

it?

can you?

don’t worry,

hell will return, grown

stronger,

it will find me

again

older, fatter

and I will report the

matter to you,

dear reader,

in the fashion that

you have become

accustomed

to.

the x-factor

pain in back, feel bloated, should cut my

toenails,

smoking here

past midnight,

radio turned low,

warm night,

I have my view of the

freeway,

I’m still alive

but not so sure of the

others,

I keep getting approached by

strangers at the racetrack