I began to write letters to the

editor of one of the large

newspapers,

most of which were published

and all of which

backed unpopular causes.

“what will the neighbors think?”

my parents asked

me.

but the letters brought interesting

results—hate letters, including

death threats through the

mails.

it also brought me into contact

with some weird

people who believed that I

meant what I had written in

those letters.

there were secret meetings

in cellars and attics,

there were guns, pacts,

plans,

speeches.

those were also

places where I scrounged up

free drinks.

most of these meetings

were attended by right-wingers,

young guys between the ages

of 17 and 23.

“we don’t want blacks fucking

our women!

they must die!”

unfortunately

I wasn’t fucking any

women myself.

all the meetings began by standing

and saluting the

flag

which I considered pretty

damned

juvenile.

but most of these young men

were from well-to-do

families

and I drank with some of

them afterwards.

I drank as much as I could

as they ranted

on.

I never said anything

but they didn’t seem to mind.

they remembered the letters

and had no idea that they

were false.

not that I was a decent

human being

but I wasn’t aligned

with any group or

ideology.

actually the whole idea of

life and people

repulsed me

but it was easier to

scrounge drinks off the

right-wingers

than off old women

in the bars.

“I don’t believe that you

are a son of mine,”

my father told me.

“what will the neighbors

think?” my mother

asked.

poor damned patriotic

deluded fools.

after they threw me out

of the house

I gave up

the meetings

and went and lived by myself in a

plywood shack on

Bunker Hill.

and my parents no longer

had to worry about

what the

neighbors thought.

full circle

Sanford liked to play dirty

tricks like piss in milk bottles,

burn the legs off of spiders, torture

cats, put water in gas tanks, etc.

he was full of dirty

tricks.

we grew up together.

when World War II arrived he went into the

air force.

“the flyboys get all the pussy,” he

told me.

on his second mission over the English

Channel they

blasted his ass out of the

sky.

they never found him.

one more dirty trick in a dirty trick

world.

2

the streets were all I saw

a place in Philly

there’s nothing like being young

and starving,

living in a roominghouse and

pretending to be a

writer

while other men are occupied

with their professions and

their possessions.

there’s nothing like being

young and

starving,

listening to Brahms,

your belly sucked-in,

nary an ounce of

fat,

stretched out on the bed

in the dark,

smoking a rolled

cigarette

and working on the

last bottle of

wine,

the sheets of your

writing strewn across the

floor.

you have walked on and across

them,

your masterpieces, and

either

they’ll be read in

hell,