holy Christ, I was on fire then and
I’d tell that whore I lived with on Beacon Street
starving and drinking
I’d tell her that I had something great and mysterious
going for me,
in fact, when I got really drunk I’d pace the floor in my
dirty torn shorts and ripped undershirt and
say more in desperation than belief: “I’m a fucking
genius and nobody knows it but
me!”
I thought this was rather humorous but she’d say, “honey, you’re
full of shit, pour us another drink!”
she was crazy too and now and then an empty bottle would come
flying toward my head.
(she
missed most of the time)
but
when she bounced one off my skull I’d ignore it, and pour another
drink because
after all, when you’re immortal, nothing
matters.
and besides, she had one of the finest pair of legs I’d ever
seen
in those high-heeled shoes and with her slender
ankles and her great knees glimmering in the
smoky drunken light.
she helped me through some of the worst times and if she was
here now we’d both laugh our goddamned asses
off
knowing it was all so true and real, and yet that somehow it
wasn’t real at
all.
we were out on the town
and we
went to this nice
house, lovely couple, etc.
anyhow, there were 7 or
8 of us and a jug of really
cheap wine
came out and then some
snacks, and then the man
got up and came back with
3 live goldfish and he said,
“watch this!”
and he put them in a large
fish tank
and the next thing I knew
there were 6 or 7 heads
down there glued to the fish tank
including my girlfriend’s
and the soft light from the tank
shone on all the faces
and in all the eyes,
and one of the men went,
“ah!” and one of the girls
went, “oooh!”
some terrible thing was eating the
goldfish.
then somebody said, “look,
there’s just half-a-goldfish
left and he’s still swimming
around!”
I said, “why don’t you fucking
party animals
get up off that rug
and help me finish this
cheap wine?”
12 or 14 eyes turned and looked at
me. then one at a time
the people moved away from
the fish tank and came back and sat
down at the table
again.
then they began a discussion about
the merits of
little literary
magazines.
the time comes when the tank runs
dry and you have to
refill
if you can.
the vulture swoops low over
you
as you open the manila envelope
from the ivy league university and
read:
“we have to pass on this batch of poems
but we are reading again in the
Fall.”
“you were rejected?” asks my
wife.
“yes.”
“well, fuck them,” she says.
now, there’s loyalty!
the vulture pauses in mid-flight,
defecates,
and flies out of the dining room
window.
and I think, it’s nice that they’ll be
reading again in the
Fall.
we are surprised:
you used to jab with the left
then throw a left hook to the body
followed by an
overhand right.
we liked that
but we like your new way too:
where you can’t tell where
the next punch
is coming
from.
to change your style like that when you’re
not exactly a kid
anymore,
I think that takes some
doing.
anyhow, enough chitchat.
we’re accepting your poems
for our departmental Literary Journal
and, by the way,
you are one of the poets selected for
class discussion
in our Contemporary Poetry Series.
no shit, baby?
well, suck my