a gentle, alcoholic night

I told Linda I was going to come up here and
write
but I’ve stared at this machine
15 minutes while
drinking wine and smoking.

but there is a very fine symphony on the
radio
and I don’t feel too badly about not
producing.
this could be a good time to answer those
letters from those people to tell me of their
agonies
but I did that several nights ago,
I got 5 or 6 of them with
one shit.

there is a writer I know, he’s a very
good one but all he writes about is
writing, he writes about writing
poems.
well, he will write, I have written ten
poems today.
or he will write, I haven’t written a
poem in 3 months.
or he will write that all his poems are
coming back
or he will write that all his poems have
been accepted.

this poem is something like his: talking
about it.
it’s relaxing, you can just go on and say things
like–
I went for a walk with a poem
today.
or–
I went to the track today with a poem
and we had some arguments over our selections
but anyhow we
both lost.
or–
I drank today but my poem(s) smoked
pot.

anyhow, Linda now hears the typer going
and probably thinks that I am
hammering out great stuff.
actually, I came up here to drink
great stuff.

right, poem?