Mockingbird Wish Me Luck Read Free Page B

wrapped around something,
    then pulled the coat away—
    it was a policeman’s helmet
    complete with badge.
    “gimme 20 bucks for this,” he said.
    “fuck off, man,” I said, “what do I want with a
    cop’s derby?”
    “ten bucks,” he said.
    “did you kill him?”
    “5 bucks…”
    “what happened to that 6 grand you made
    at your art show last month?”
    “I drank it. all in the same bar.”
    “and I never got a beer,” I said.
    “2 bucks…”
    “did you kill him?”
    “we ganged him, punched him around a bit…”
    “that’s chickenshit. I don’t want the headpiece.”
    “we’re 18 cents short of a bottle, man…”
     
 
    I gave the painter 35 cents
    keeping the chain on the door, slipping it to him
    with my fingers. he lived with his mother,
    beat his girlfriend regularly
    and really didn’t paint that
    well. but I suppose a lot of obnoxious characters
    work their way into
    immortality.
     
 
    I’m working on it myself.
     

the inquisitor
     
     
    in the bathtub rereading Céline’s
    Journey to the End of the Night
    the phone rings
    and I get out
    grab a towel.
    some guy from SMART SET ,
    he wants to know what’s in my mailbox
    how my life has been
    going.
    I tell him there isn’t anything in the
    mailbox or the
    life.
    he thinks that I’m holding
    back. I hope that
    I am.
     

my friend william
     
     
    my friend William is a fortunate man:
    he lacks the imagination to suffer
     
 
    he kept his first job
    his first wife
     
 
    can drive a car 50,000 miles
    without a brake job
     
 
    he dances like a swan
    and has the prettiest blankest eyes
    this side of El Paso
     
 
    his garden is a paradise
    the heels of his shoes are always level
    and his handshake is firm
     
 
    people love him
     
 
    when my friend William dies
    it will hardly be from madness or cancer
     
 
    he’ll walk right past the devil
    and into heaven
     
 
    you’ll see him at the party tonight
    grinning
    over his martini
     
 
    blissful and delightful
    as some guy
    fucks his wife in the
    bathroom.
     

300 poems
     
     
    look, he said, I’ve written
    300 poems in 2
    months,
    and he handed me the
    stack and I
    thought
    oo oo.
    a young girl
    walked up
    and handed him a plate of
    corn and meat
    in his cottage
    by the beach
    and the sea rolled in
    and I turned the
    white
    pages.
    I’ve been drinking
    he said
    and writing
    and the young girl said
    is there anything else
    I can get
    you?
    he was rich and I was poor
    and the sea rolled in
    and I turned the
    white
    pages.
    what do you think?
    he asked?
    and I said,
    well, some of
    these…
    but I didn’t
    finish.
    later I walked
    outside. I walked down
    the sand to where the sand got
    wet and I looked at the water and
    the moon
    and then I turned around
    and I walked up to the
    boardwalk and I thought,
    oo oo.
     

lifting weights at 2 a.m.
     
     
    queers do this
    or is it that you’re
    afraid to die?
    biceps, triceps, forceps,
    what are you going to do
    with muscles?
    well, muscles please the ladies
    and keep the bullies
    at bay—
    so
    what?
    is it worth it?
    is it worth the collected works
    of Balzac?
    or a 3 week vacation
    in Spain?
    or, is it another way of
    suffering?
    if you got paid to do it,
    you’d hate it.
    if a man got paid to make love,
    he’d hate it.
     
 
    still, one needs the
    exercise—
    this writing game:
    only the brain and soul get
    worked-out.
    quit your bitching and
    do it.
    while other people are
    sleeping
    you’re lifting a mountain
    with rivers of poems
    running off.
     

reality
     
     
    my little famous bleeding elbows
    my knotty knees (especially) and
    even my balls
    hairy and wasted.
    these blue evenings of walking past buildings
    where Jews pray beautifully about seasons I
    know nothing of
    and would leave me alone
    with the roaches and ants climbing my dying body
    in some place
    too real to touch.
     

earthquake
     
     
    Americans don’t know what tragedy is—
    a little 6.5 earthquake can set them to chattering
    like