interested in a free lunch.
we’ll stop by again later this
afternoon.
we’ll bring some beer.
it is now 2 p.m.
call meanwhile if you’re interested.
397- 8211
Steve and Frank
on the sunny banks of the university
I think that all the decades of teaching English
Lit has gotten to him.
his own writing has become more and more
comfortable.
he has survived, he has held on to his job, he has
changed wives (often).
but it was all just too easy, really, teaching those Lit
classes
and coasting along and by
doing that he has missed out on something important,
reality perhaps,
and it’s beginning to show.
each new book of poetry gets more and more
comfortable (as I said earlier).
I think good poetry should startle, shatter and,
yes, entertain while getting as close to the truth as
possible.
I can get all the comfort I need from a good
cigar.
if this gentleman expects his own poetry to be taught
by others
in future English
Lit classes
he’d better get his ass out of the warm sand
and start splashing in the bloody waters of real
life.
or maybe he’d just rather be a good old guy
forever,
adored and comforted by the eager young
coeds.
that’s not so bad, really,
considering that you get paid very well for
that.
vacation in Greece
it was 4 years ago, she told me,
and we were on a private beach,
on the Mediterranean
my sister and I—
my sister is 18 and she has
long and lovely
legs,
and these 3 beautiful young men
bronzed and slim
put their blankets near ours;
one was an Englishman, one was a Scotsman
and the other might have been
Greek or Italian.
my sister and I started spreading oil on our
bodies, you
know, and it was all going well, you could
feel the vibes—
then this boy of 12 walked up,
he was bowlegged, had acne,
a very scruffy boy,
and he started speaking to the men
and the men talked to him
and one of the men gave him a cigarette
and the boy stood there
smoking the cigarette
not inhaling
and then one of the men got up
and went into the water with the boy
behind some rocks
where the water was shallow
and the man and the boy
stayed there quite a while.
then they came back.
then
the men got up, folded their blankets
and walked off.
the boy stood there
smoking another cigarette, not
inhaling.
I asked him:
“how did you get in here? it’s a
private beach.”
the boy pointed to a fence behind us.
“it was easy,” he said, “there’a hole in
the fence.”
his English was terrible.
and then he walked away along the shore with his bowlegs,
such a scruffy boy.
the spill
the jock’s horse
the 7 horse
clipped the heels
of the horse
in front of
him
stumbled and
fell
throwing the
jock
over its
head
and onto the
track before
some
oncoming
horses
most of
which
avoided the
jock’s
still
form
except for
the 9
horse
who gave him
one step
in the middle
of his
back
you could
see
the hoof
dig
in
then the
field was
past
and the
ambulance was
on its
way
the jock wore
Kelly green
silks,
black
sleeves.
3 or 4
people were now
gathered around
the
still
jock.
as the ambulance
moved in
the man behind
me
said to his
companion,
“let’s go get
a
beer.”
the last salamander
it’s freezing again, and the snitch is sucking up
to the warden. I’m down $20 with six to go, someone stole
the bell and Darlene broke her left kneecap; the hunter
weeps in the bracken, and in the mirror I see pennies for
eyes; this war is like a dead green shawl
as the last salamander
gets ready to
die.
I am down $50 with four to go,
the boy broke the mower on an apricot and
the skyscraper trembles in the bleeding January night.
I am down $100 with two to go, I will double up
face down, go for broke, and it
might be time for a trip to Spain or to buy
one last pair of new shoes.
it gets sad; the walls grip my
fingers and smile;
I know who killed Cock
we’ll stop by again later this
afternoon.
we’ll bring some beer.
it is now 2 p.m.
call meanwhile if you’re interested.
397- 8211
Steve and Frank
on the sunny banks of the university
I think that all the decades of teaching English
Lit has gotten to him.
his own writing has become more and more
comfortable.
he has survived, he has held on to his job, he has
changed wives (often).
but it was all just too easy, really, teaching those Lit
classes
and coasting along and by
doing that he has missed out on something important,
reality perhaps,
and it’s beginning to show.
each new book of poetry gets more and more
comfortable (as I said earlier).
I think good poetry should startle, shatter and,
yes, entertain while getting as close to the truth as
possible.
I can get all the comfort I need from a good
cigar.
if this gentleman expects his own poetry to be taught
by others
in future English
Lit classes
he’d better get his ass out of the warm sand
and start splashing in the bloody waters of real
life.
or maybe he’d just rather be a good old guy
forever,
adored and comforted by the eager young
coeds.
that’s not so bad, really,
considering that you get paid very well for
that.
vacation in Greece
it was 4 years ago, she told me,
and we were on a private beach,
on the Mediterranean
my sister and I—
my sister is 18 and she has
long and lovely
legs,
and these 3 beautiful young men
bronzed and slim
put their blankets near ours;
one was an Englishman, one was a Scotsman
and the other might have been
Greek or Italian.
my sister and I started spreading oil on our
bodies, you
know, and it was all going well, you could
feel the vibes—
then this boy of 12 walked up,
he was bowlegged, had acne,
a very scruffy boy,
and he started speaking to the men
and the men talked to him
and one of the men gave him a cigarette
and the boy stood there
smoking the cigarette
not inhaling
and then one of the men got up
and went into the water with the boy
behind some rocks
where the water was shallow
and the man and the boy
stayed there quite a while.
then they came back.
then
the men got up, folded their blankets
and walked off.
the boy stood there
smoking another cigarette, not
inhaling.
I asked him:
“how did you get in here? it’s a
private beach.”
the boy pointed to a fence behind us.
“it was easy,” he said, “there’a hole in
the fence.”
his English was terrible.
and then he walked away along the shore with his bowlegs,
such a scruffy boy.
the spill
the jock’s horse
the 7 horse
clipped the heels
of the horse
in front of
him
stumbled and
fell
throwing the
jock
over its
head
and onto the
track before
some
oncoming
horses
most of
which
avoided the
jock’s
still
form
except for
the 9
horse
who gave him
one step
in the middle
of his
back
you could
see
the hoof
dig
in
then the
field was
past
and the
ambulance was
on its
way
the jock wore
Kelly green
silks,
black
sleeves.
3 or 4
people were now
gathered around
the
still
jock.
as the ambulance
moved in
the man behind
me
said to his
companion,
“let’s go get
a
beer.”
the last salamander
it’s freezing again, and the snitch is sucking up
to the warden. I’m down $20 with six to go, someone stole
the bell and Darlene broke her left kneecap; the hunter
weeps in the bracken, and in the mirror I see pennies for
eyes; this war is like a dead green shawl
as the last salamander
gets ready to
die.
I am down $50 with four to go,
the boy broke the mower on an apricot and
the skyscraper trembles in the bleeding January night.
I am down $100 with two to go, I will double up
face down, go for broke, and it
might be time for a trip to Spain or to buy
one last pair of new shoes.
it gets sad; the walls grip my
fingers and smile;
I know who killed Cock
Similar Books
