The Roominghouse Madrigals Read Free

it was 7 a.m. and
    40 degrees. those things
    happen. the trouble was there were no
    bars open. nothing open. not even a
    jail.
     
 
    he’s a poet.
    he’s also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
    no blood involved that
    way. he won’t tell me whether I am crazy or
    not—I don’t have the
    money.
    he walks out with his cocktail glass
    disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
    then suddenly comes walking back in
    unannounced
    with the same cocktail glass
    to make sure I haven’t gotten hold of
    something more precious than
    Life itself.
     
 
    my cheap green beer is killing
    me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
    gives me a little pill that stops my
    gagging.
    but nothing decent to
    drink.
     
 
    he’d bought a small 6 pack
    for my arrival but that was gone in an
    hour and 15
    minutes.
     
 
    “I’ll buy you barrels of beer,” he had
    said.
     
 
    I used his phone (one of his phones)
    to get deliveries of beer and
    cheap whiskey. the town was ten miles away,
    downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
    roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
    course.
     
 
    the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
    hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
    Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn’t have
    had beerstains on his
    shirt.
    anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
    x-wives I was too drunk to
    make it.
     
 
    scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
    through the window—
    he didn’t want to give up a damn thing—
    and
    leveling the luger while I was
    working
    while “The March to the Gallows” was playing over
    the Muzak
    and shooting me in the ass first and
    my poor brain
    later.
     
 
    “an intruder,” I could hear him telling them,
    “ravishing one of my helpless x-wives.”
     
 
    I see him published in some of the magazines
    now. not very good stuff.
     
 
    a poem about me
    too: the Polack.
     
 
    the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
    country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
    works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
    fools with “pre-drained spirits.”
    the Polack drinks seas of green beer
    full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
    hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
    “fragile fags.” the Polack hates his
    wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
    an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
    “obese burned out wife.” the Polack has a
    spastic gut. the Polack has a
    “rectal brain.”
    thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
    this? I know I still owe you for the
    pill.
     
 
    Your poem is not too good
    but at least I got your starch up.
    most of your stuff is about as lively as a
    wet and deflated
    beachball. but it is your round, you’ve won a round.
    going to invite me out this
    Summer? I might scrape up
    trainfare. got an Indian friend who’d like to meet
    you and yours. he swears he’s got the biggest
    pecker in the state of California.
     
 
    and guess what?
    he writes
    POETRY
    too!
     

Poem for My 43rd Birthday
     
     
    To end up alone
    in a tomb of a room
    without cigarettes
    or wine—
    just a lightbulb
    and a potbelly,
    grayhaired,
    and glad to have
    the room.
     
 
    …in the morning
    they’re out there
    making money:
    judges, carpenters,
    plumbers, doctors,
    newsboys, policemen,
    barbers, carwashers,
    dentists, florists,
    waitresses, cooks,
    cabdrivers…
     
 
    and you turn over
    to your left side
    to get the sun
    on your back
    and out
    of your eyes.
     

The Genius of the Crowd
     
     
    There is enough treachery, hatred,
                violence,
    Absurdity in the average human
                being
    To supply any given army on any given
          day.
    AND The Best At Murder Are Those
          Who Preach Against It.
    AND The Best At Hate Are Those
          Who Preach LOVE
    AND THE BEST AT WAR
    —FINALLY—ARE THOSE WHO
                      PREACH
    PEACE
     
 
    Those Who Preach GOD
          NEED God
    Those Who Preach PEACE
          Do Not Have Peace.
    THOSE WHO PREACH LOVE
          DO NOT HAVE LOVE
    BEWARE