end up like this:

more stolid than the butcher,

more placid than a waiting deck of

cards,

not a button unbuttoned,

safe from the salt of the grumbling

sun.

yea, yea, yea.

the old guy in the piano bar

doesn’t know how bad he is in that

white tablecloth place,

he’s probably a relative of the

owner

and he sits at the piano and bangs

out

in the most obvious tired

manner

Jerome Kern or Scott Joplin

or Gershwin

and nobody ever applauds or

requests a tune,

they are into chewing or

conversation.

I don’t feel sorry for him

and he doesn’t feel sorry

for me

and part of his job is to

greet you when you

enter

looking up from his

keys

and to say

good night as you

exit

while still banging at

his keys.

but I do have a

fantasy

sometimes while

sitting at my table:

I see it all:

a stranger in a dark

overcoat,

fedora pulled

low over his

eyes

reaches into the

overcoat

and out comes a

.45

and he fires four

shots,

two into the piano

and two into the

player.

then it is silent.

the man rises slowly,

walks out and is

gone.

and the people

keep on talking and

laughing and drinking

and chewing

and the waiter walks

up and asks me,

“is everything all

right, sir?”

and I answer,

“everything is

beautiful.”

“thank you, sir,”

he says and

walks off

as approaching

us

through the night is

the sound of a

siren.

nights and years

the days of hell arrive on schedule,

ahead of schedule.

and the nights of hell.

and the years of hell.

hell gnawing away like a rat

in your belly.

hell inside.

hell outside.

these poor words,

tossed into hell,

punched silly, sent

running.

I walk outside into the

night,

look up.

even the palm trees shriek

in agony.

the world is being pounded

by a senseless

force.

I go inside, shut the

door.

at this machine,

I write these words for

nobody.

the sun is dead.

the day is dead,

the living are dead.

only hell lives

on.

quiet in a quiet night

I can feel myself getting fat, old and

stupid.

I wheeze putting on my shoes.

I am no longer sure if I have years

left, months left, weeks left,

days left

or if the last minute is arrowing

in.

no matter.

this bottle of 1983

Saint-Emilion Grand Cru Classé

still rings the damned gong,

at least I’ve avoided sitting around

with the other old farts

sorting out unprecious

memories

the young are no help either,

they are shining mirrors without

reflection.

death sits in the chair across from

me and watches.

death sees but has no eyes.

death knows but has no mind.

we often sit together in the night.

death has one move left.

I have none.

this is an excellent wine.

it connects me with infinity.

a man without wine is like a fish without

water,