one more good one
to be writing poetry at the age of 50
like a schoolboy,
surely, I must be crazy;
racetracks and booze and arguments
with the landlord;
watercolor paintings under the bed
with dirty socks;
bathtub full of trash
and a garbage can lined with
underground newspapers;
record player that doesn’t work,
radio that doesn’t work,
and I don’t work—
sit between 2 lamps,
bottle on the floor
begging a 20-year-old typewriter
to say something, in a way and
well enough
so they won’t confuse me
with the more comfortable
practitioners;
this is certainly not a game for
flyweights or Ping-Pong players—
all arguments to the contrary.
—but once you get the taste, it’s good to get your
teeth into
words. I forgive those who
can’t quit.
forgive myself.
this is where the action is,
this is the hot horse that
comes in.
there’s no grander fort
no better flag
no better woman
no better way; yet there’s much else to say—
there seems as much hell in it as
magic; death gets as close as any lover has,
closer,
you know it like your right hand
like a mark on the wall
like your daughter’s name,
you know it like the face on the corner
newsboy,
and you sit there with flowers and houses
with dogs and death and a boil on the neck,
you sit down and do it again and again
the machinegun chattering by the window
as the people walk by
as you sit in your undershirt,
50, on an indelicate March evening,
as their faces look in and help you write the next 5
lines,
as they walk by and say,
the old man in the window, what’s the deal with
him?”
—fucked by the muse, friends,
thank you—
and I roll a cigarette with one hand
like the old bum
am, and then thank and curse the gods
alike,
lean forward
drag on the cigarette
think of the good fighters
like poor Hem, poor Beau Jack, poor Sugar Ray,
poor Kid Gavilan, poor Villon, poor Babe, poor
Hart Crane, poor
me, hahaha.
lean forward,
redhot ash
falling on my wrists,
teeth into the word.
crazy at the age of 50,
send it
home.
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