a bird without wings.

wine runs in the blood of the tiger

and me.

death is inferior

to this.

it can only win an obvious

victory.

death gets out of the chair and

stands behind

me.

it is a beautiful night.

I reach down and pull a long hair

from my forearm.

I touch it to my cigarette and watch

it sizzle away.

I am ripe.

the trees outside are silent.

there is no more,

no less.

a little cafe on 6th street

went in about 1:30 p.m.

ordered the turkey sandwich

on wheat plus some

decaf,

opened the paper and

waited.

two men to my left

talking:

“well, I wasn’t going to

say anything but I looked at

your haircut and I saw

something was

wrong…”

“yeah, I was watching her

in the mirror and I thought,

’hey, what’s she doing?’”

“I noticed it right

away…

you should have said

something…”

they went on talking about

the haircut and I went on

reading.

the sandwich and decaf

arrived with a side order

of

slaw and I began

eating.

“she should have taken more

off the left side…”

“yeah, yeah, she’s always given

me a good cut before…”

“yeah, I mean, it doesn’t look

bad but somehow it doesn’t look

right, you

know?”

“I know…I might not go

back…”

then

one of the men

asked for some

cherry pie:

“I really like their

cherry pie…”

“me too…!”

I finished my meal

left the tip

got up and walked to the

cash register near the

door.

the men were into their

cherry pies:

“I wasn’t going to say

anything, it’s really not a

big thing, you know…but

I thought I’d better tell

you…”

“oh, I knew…”

“it’ll grow out, you’ll

be all right…”

“when it does, I don’t think

I’m going back…”

“it’s not that bad, it’s

just…”

I paid and walked outside

and my car was there and

I got in and drove away

but I had to stop for a red

light

at Pacific

and

the turkey-on-wheat and

the slaw and the

decaf

huddled and bucked in

my stomach

and as I got the green light

I thought

I might not

go back there

either.

death in the modern age

I am writing a novel now and one way or

the other I have lost 4 chapters in this

computer.

now like everything else

this isn’t such an important thing

unless it happens to

you.

like driving the freeway

you might see three or four cars

crashed and smoking

but the effect is only momentary.

in a few moments you are thinking

about something

else.

like you’ll read this poem and

think, too bad, well, he lost 4

chapters

but couldn’t he have written a

poem about

reaming some whore in a

motel room

instead?

pain seeks each individual

separately

and that’s where hell

begins

stays

festers

celebrates

its

greatness.

now.