too hot

I am here courtesy of life,

sitting tonight, stiff-necked, weary;

95 degrees now

the cats will not come in,

there is no gunfire in the streets,

this whole town is roasting its ass,

the devils in Hell are sweaty;

there is screwing only in air-conditioned

rooms.

one a.m.,

no sleep, no dreams, and

the music from the radio limps

through the air.

even the dismally lonely forget to

phone.

that’s the only good part of

this.

oh, there are other decent

parts:

at least the surgeon’s knife is

not at work.

the flies zoom through the

fettered space

and there’s no need to

continue writing this dripping

wet poem.

right?

right.

the last song

driving the freeway while

listening to the Country and Western boys

sing about a broken heart

and the honkytonk blues,

it seems that things just don’t work

most of the time

and when they do it will be for a

short time

only.

well, that’s not news.

nothing’s news.

it’s the same old thing in

disguise.

only one thing comes without a

disguise and you only see it

once, or

maybe never.

like getting hit by a freight

train.

makes us realize that all our

moaning about long lost girls

in gingham dresses

is not so important

after

all.

reunion

the cat sprayed in my

computer

and knocked it

out.

now I’m back to the

old

typer.

it’s

tougher.

it can handle

cat spray, spilled beer

and wine,

cigarette and

cigar ashes,

damned near

anything.

reminds me of

myself.

welcome back,

old boy,

from the

old boy.

disgusting

I’ve got this large plastic floater with headrest

and I get onto it

and float about the pool

looking up at the tall majesty of the trees

through the unclear California air

I paddle about searching for

different views.

some of my cats

sitting at the edge of the pool,

stare,

thinking that I have gone

crazy.

maybe I have.

they are used to seeing me

sleeping or

at the computer

they don’t mind

that.

but this?

have I turned into a

fish?

or what?

I flip off my floating bed,

sink down into the blue

pool,

rise up,

swim to the

edge.

I climb out,

walk toward my

towel.

dinner soon

and the boxing matches on

tv,

later a bottle of

cabernet.

it’s so nice, this

road to

hell.

Bach, come back

sitting in this old chair, listening to Bach,

the music splashes across me, refreshing, delightful.

I need it, tonight I feel like a man who has come back

from the same old war, death in life,

as my guts say not again, not again, to have fought

so hard for what?

too often, the only escape is sleep.

Bach saves me, momentarily.

so often I hear my father laughing, the dead laughter

of the father who seldom laughed in life

is laughing now.