Love is a Dog from Hell Read Free

by
    eyes like a child’s crayon
    drawing. you won’t be
    able to drink a glass of
    water or walk across a
    room. there will be the
    walls and the sound of
    the streets outside, and
    you’ll hear machineguns
    and mortar shells. that’ll
    be when you want it and
    can’t have it.
 
    the teeth
    are never finally the
    teeth of love.

guru
     
     
    big black beard
    tells me
    that I don’t feel
    terror
 
    I look at him
    my gut rattles
    gravel
 
    I see his eyes
    look upward
 
    he’s strong
 
    has dirty fingernails
 
    and upon the walls:
    scabbards.
 
    he knows things:
 
    books
    the odds
    the best road
    home
 
    I like him
    but I think he
    lies
 
    (I’m not sure
    he lies)
 
    his wife sits
    in a dark
    corner
 
    when I first met
    her she was the
    most beautiful
    woman
    I had ever
    seen
 
    now she has
    become
    his twin
 
    perhaps not his
    fault:
 
    perhaps the thing
    does us all
    like that
 
    yet after I leave
    their house
    I feel terror
 
    the moon looks
    diseased
 
    my hands slip
    on the
    steering wheel
 
    I get my car
    out
    and down the
    hill
 
    almost crash it
    into a
    blue-green
    parked car
    clod me forever,
    Beatrice
 
    wavering poet, ha
    haha
 
    dinky dog of
    terror.

the professors
     
     
    sitting with the professors
    we talk about Allen Tate
    and John Crow Ransom
    the rugs are clean and
    the coffeetables shine
    and there is talk of
    budgets and works in
    progress
    and there is a
    fireplace.
    the kitchen floor is
    well-waxed
    and I have just eaten
    dinner
    after drinking until
    3 a.m.
    after reading
    the night before
 
    now I’m to read again
    at a nearby college.
    I’m in Arkansas in
    January
    somebody even mentions
    Faulkner
    I go to the bathroom
    and vomit up the
    dinner
    when I come out
    they are all in their
    coats and overcoats
    waiting in the
    kitchen.
    I ’m to read in
    15 minutes.
    there’ll be a
    good crowd
    they tell me.

for Al —
     
     
    don’t worry about rejections, pard,
    I’ve been rejected
    before.
 
    sometimes you make a mistake, taking
    the wrong poem
    more often I make the mistake, writing
    it.
 
    but I like a mount in every race
    even though the man
    who puts up the morning line
 
    tabs it 30 to one.
 
    I get to thinking about death more and
    more
 
    senility
 
    crutches
 
    armchairs
 
    writing purple poetry with a
    dripping pen
 
    when the young girls with mouths
    like barracudas
    bodies like lemon trees
    bodies like clouds
    bodies like flashes of lightning
    stop knocking on my door.
 
    don’t worry about rejections, pard.
    I have smoked 25 cigarettes tonight
    and you know about the beer.
 
    the phone has only rung once:
    wrong number.

how to be a great writer
     
     
    you’ve got to fuck a great many women
    beautiful women
    and write a few decent love poems.
 
    and don’t worry about age
    and/or freshly-arrived talents.
 
    just drink more beer
    more and more beer
 
    and attend the racetrack at least once a
    week
 
    and win
    if possible.
 
    learning to win is hard—
    any slob can be a good loser.
 
    and don’t forget your Brahms
    and your Bach and your
    beer .
 
    don’t overexercise.
 
    sleep until noon.
 
    avoid credit cards
    or paying for anything on
    time.
 
    remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
    in this world worth over $50
    (in 1977).
    and if you have the ability to love
    love yourself first
    but always be aware of the possibility of
    total defeat
    whether the reason for that defeat
    seems right or wrong—
 
    an early taste of death is not necessarily
    a bad thing.
 
    stay out of churches and bars and museums,
    and like the spider be
    patient—
    time is everybody’s cross,
    plus
    exile
    defeat
    treachery
 
    all that dross.
 
    stay with the beer.
 
    beer is continous blood.
 
    a continuous lover.
 
    get a large typewriter
    and as the footsteps go up and down
    outside your window
 
    hit that thing
    hit it hard
 
    make it a heavyweight fight
 
    make it the bull when he first charges in
 
    and remember the old dogs
    who