as
snow.
the slow retreat, no trumpets here, backing into it,
you can only wonder, did you put up a good fight?
or was it all just
a stupid joke?
we can only hope not.
now continues
the slow retreat, backing into it, going back until
finally
you reach the beginning
and can no longer be
found.
SOUR GRAPES
it’s over for me, he said, I’ve lost it.
maybe you never had it, I said.
oh, I had it, he said.
how did you know you had it?
one knows, he said, that’s all.
well I never had it, I told him.
that’s too fucking bad, he said.
what is? I asked.
too fucking bad you never had
it, he answered.
I don’t feel bad that I never had
it, I said.
I understand, he said, now go
away and leave me alone.
suit yourself, I said, and slid one
barstool down.
he just sat there staring into his
drink.
I don’t know what he had lost but if
I never had it and he had lost it,
then it seemed we were in the same
boat.
I decided
some people make too damned
much of everything and
I finished my drink and walked
out of there.
FENCING WITH THE SHADOWS
really feeling old sometimes,
pushing to get off of the couch,
puffing as I tie my shoes.
no, not me,
Jesus, please not me!
don’t
put me in a fucking walker next,
plodding along.
somehow, I couldn’t abide
that.
I light a cigar,
feel better.
at least I can still make it to the track
every day they’re running, slam
my bets in.
keeps the heart warm and the
brain hustling.
I still drive the side streets
in the meanest parts of
town,
gliding down back alleys, peering
around,
always curious.
I’m still crazy,
I’m all right,
and I’m in and out of the doctor’s
office, for this, for that, joking with
the nurses.
give me a few pills and I’m all
right.
got a refrigerator up here
in my writing room
stocked with cold ones.
the fight is still on.
I may be backed into a corner but I’m
snarling in the dark.
what’s left?
the redemption and the glory.
the last march of summer.
try to put me in a walker now and I’ll
kick your ass!
meanwhile, here’s another cold one,
and another.
it will be a while before I
see you at the finish line,
sucker.
A HELL OF A DUET
we were always broke, rescuing the Sunday papers out of
Monday trashcans (along with the refundable soft drink bottles).
we were always being evicted from our old place
but in each new apartment we would begin a new existence,
always dramatically behind in the rent, the radio
playing bravely in the torn sunlight, we lived like millionaires, as if
our lives were blessed, and I loved her high-heeled shoes and her sexy
dresses, and also how she laughed at me
sitting in my torn undershirt decorated with
cigarette holes: we were some team, Jane and I, we sparkled through
the tragedy of our poverty as if it was a joke, as if it
didn’t matter—and it didn’t—we had it by the throat and we were
laughing it to death.
it was said afterwards that
never had been heard such wild singing, such joyful singing of
old songs
and never
such screaming and cursing—
breaking of glass—
madness—
barricaded against the landlord and the police (old pros, we were) to
awake in the morning with the couch, chairs and dresser pushed up against the
door.
upon awakening
I always said, “ladies first …”
and Jane would run to the bathroom for some minutes and then
I’d have my turn and
then, back in our bed, both of us breathing quietly, we’d wonder what
disaster the new day would bring, feeling trapped, slain, stupid,
desperate, feeling that we had used up the last of our luck, certain we were finally
out of good fortune.
it can get deep-rooted sad when your back is up against the wall first
thing each morning but we always managed to work our way past all
that.
usually after 10 or 15 minutes Jane would say,
“shit!” and I would say,
“yeah!”
and then, penniless and without hope we’d figure out a
way to
continue, and then
snow.
the slow retreat, no trumpets here, backing into it,
you can only wonder, did you put up a good fight?
or was it all just
a stupid joke?
we can only hope not.
now continues
the slow retreat, backing into it, going back until
finally
you reach the beginning
and can no longer be
found.
SOUR GRAPES
it’s over for me, he said, I’ve lost it.
maybe you never had it, I said.
oh, I had it, he said.
how did you know you had it?
one knows, he said, that’s all.
well I never had it, I told him.
that’s too fucking bad, he said.
what is? I asked.
too fucking bad you never had
it, he answered.
I don’t feel bad that I never had
it, I said.
I understand, he said, now go
away and leave me alone.
suit yourself, I said, and slid one
barstool down.
he just sat there staring into his
drink.
I don’t know what he had lost but if
I never had it and he had lost it,
then it seemed we were in the same
boat.
I decided
some people make too damned
much of everything and
I finished my drink and walked
out of there.
FENCING WITH THE SHADOWS
really feeling old sometimes,
pushing to get off of the couch,
puffing as I tie my shoes.
no, not me,
Jesus, please not me!
don’t
put me in a fucking walker next,
plodding along.
somehow, I couldn’t abide
that.
I light a cigar,
feel better.
at least I can still make it to the track
every day they’re running, slam
my bets in.
keeps the heart warm and the
brain hustling.
I still drive the side streets
in the meanest parts of
town,
gliding down back alleys, peering
around,
always curious.
I’m still crazy,
I’m all right,
and I’m in and out of the doctor’s
office, for this, for that, joking with
the nurses.
give me a few pills and I’m all
right.
got a refrigerator up here
in my writing room
stocked with cold ones.
the fight is still on.
I may be backed into a corner but I’m
snarling in the dark.
what’s left?
the redemption and the glory.
the last march of summer.
try to put me in a walker now and I’ll
kick your ass!
meanwhile, here’s another cold one,
and another.
it will be a while before I
see you at the finish line,
sucker.
A HELL OF A DUET
we were always broke, rescuing the Sunday papers out of
Monday trashcans (along with the refundable soft drink bottles).
we were always being evicted from our old place
but in each new apartment we would begin a new existence,
always dramatically behind in the rent, the radio
playing bravely in the torn sunlight, we lived like millionaires, as if
our lives were blessed, and I loved her high-heeled shoes and her sexy
dresses, and also how she laughed at me
sitting in my torn undershirt decorated with
cigarette holes: we were some team, Jane and I, we sparkled through
the tragedy of our poverty as if it was a joke, as if it
didn’t matter—and it didn’t—we had it by the throat and we were
laughing it to death.
it was said afterwards that
never had been heard such wild singing, such joyful singing of
old songs
and never
such screaming and cursing—
breaking of glass—
madness—
barricaded against the landlord and the police (old pros, we were) to
awake in the morning with the couch, chairs and dresser pushed up against the
door.
upon awakening
I always said, “ladies first …”
and Jane would run to the bathroom for some minutes and then
I’d have my turn and
then, back in our bed, both of us breathing quietly, we’d wonder what
disaster the new day would bring, feeling trapped, slain, stupid,
desperate, feeling that we had used up the last of our luck, certain we were finally
out of good fortune.
it can get deep-rooted sad when your back is up against the wall first
thing each morning but we always managed to work our way past all
that.
usually after 10 or 15 minutes Jane would say,
“shit!” and I would say,
“yeah!”
and then, penniless and without hope we’d figure out a
way to
continue, and then
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