Love is a Dog from Hell Read Free Page B

thinks I
    could have
    saved her?
 
    in all her poems
    her husband is
    never mentioned.
    but she does
    talk about her
    garden
    so we know that’s
    there, anyhow,
    and maybe she
    fucks the rosebuds
    and finches
    before she writes
    her poems

cockroach
     
     
    the cockroach crouched
    against the tile
    while I was pissing and as
    I turned my head
    he hauled his butt
    into a crack.
    I got the can and sprayed
    and sprayed and sprayed
    and finally the roach came out
    and gave me a very dirty look.
    then he fell down into
    the bathtub and I watched
    him dying
    with a subtle pleasure
    because I paid the rent
    and he didn’t.
    I picked him up with
    some greenblue toilet
    paper and flushed him
    away. that’s all there
    was to that, except
    around Hollywood and
    Western we have to
    keep doing it.
    they say some day that
    tribe is going to
    inherit the earth
    but we’re going to
    make them wait a
    few months.

who in the hell is Tom Jones ?
     
     
    I was shacked with a
    24 year old girl from
    New York City for
    two weeks—about
    the time of the garbage
    strike out there, and
    one night my 34 year
    old woman arrived and
    she said, “I want to see
    my rival.” she did
    and then she said, “o,
    you’re a cute little thing!”
    next I knew there was a
    screech of wildcats—
    such screaming and scratching,
    wounded animal moans,
    blood and piss…
 
    I was drunk and in my
    shorts. I tried to
    separate them and fell,
    wrenched my knee. then
    they were through the screen
    door and down the walk
    and out in the street.
 
    squadcars full of cops
    arrived. a police helicopter
    circled overhead.
 
    I stood in the bathroom
    and grinned in the mirror.
    it’s not often at the age
    of 55 that such splendid
    things occur.
    better than the Watts
    riots.
 
    the 34 year old
    came back in. she had
    pissed all over herself
    and her clothing
    was torn and she was
    followed by 2 cops who
    wanted to know why.
 
    pulling up my shorts
    I tried to explain.

defeat
     
     
    listening to Bruckner on the radio
    wondering why I’m not half mad
    over the latest breakup with my
    latest girlfriend
 
    wondering why I’m not driving the streets
    drunk
    wondering why I’m not in the bedroom
    in the dark
    in the grievous dark
    pondering
    ripped by half-thoughts.
 
    I suppose
    that at last
    like the average man:
    I’ve known too many women
    and instead of thinking,
    I wonder who’s fucking her now?
    I think
    she’s giving some other poor son of a bitch
    much trouble right now.
 
    listening to Bruckner on the radio
    seems so peaceful.
 
    too many women have gone through.
    I am at last alone
    without being alone.
 
    I pick up a Grumbacher paint brush
    and clean my fingernails with the hard sharp end.
 
    I notice a wall socket.
 
    look, I’ve won.

traffic signals
     
     
    the old folks play a game
    in the park overlooking the sea
    shoving markers across cement
    with wooden sticks.
    four play, two on each side
    and 18 or 20 others sit in
    the sun and watch
    I notice this as I move
    toward the public facility
    as my car is being repaired.
 
    an old cannon sits in the park
    rusted and useless.
    six or seven sailboats ride
    the sea below.
 
    I finish my duty
    come out
    and they are still playing.
 
    one of the women is heavily rouged
    wearing false eyelashes and smoking
    a cigarette.
    the men are very thin
    very pale
    wear wristwatches that hurt
    their wrists.
 
    the other woman is very fat
    and giggles
    each time a score is made
 
    some of them are my age.
 
    they disgust me
    the way they wait for death
    with as much passion
    as a traffic signal.
 
    these are the people who believe advertisements
    these are the people who buy dentures on credit
    these are the people who celebrate holidays
    these are the people who have grandchildren
    these are the people who vote
    these are the people who have funerals
 
    these are the dead
    the smog
    the stink in the air
    the lepers.
 
    these are almost everybody
    finally.
 
    seagulls are better
    seaweed