a member of the tribe

this poet wrote an autobiography
and he dropped names like
wild, he claimed he knew so
many of the famous, when the
truth is that he knocked on
their doors and almost forced
himself upon them.
I myself got to meet them
although I was not famous
and he was just a little bitch
in a wig
who lived off his mother’s
moneys and sat around
complaining constantly
about how he was
deliberating being blocked
out from his rightful
recognition in the
literary world
by jealous forces who were
afraid of his power.
he was immensely
conceited, a tiny little
chap who strutted about
like a peacock
and often in his excite-
ment, waving his arms
about, his wig would
almost fall off of his
head and he would
quickly straighten it
and go on groaning
against the unfair
fates, the deliberate
conspiracy against
him.
his claim to fame was
a letter he said he had
claiming that William
Carlos Williams
called him the greatest
poet of our age,
but when the little
fellow was asked to
produce the letter
he was never able to
locate said.
at one time the phone
rang
while we were there.
it was his mother.
she was coming by.
most probably with his
allotment.
“you must leave now!”
he told us.
“why?” we asked.
“because I don’t want
you to see her.”

he wrote of me in his
autobiography as a
“hunchback with a
hideously scarred
face…”
which may be
true.
he called me a
drunk,
which is
true.

besides the gods
being against him
another of his claims
is that I told my
publisher never to
publish him.
untrue.
he thinks that
because he is
homosexual that
I dislike him.
that is not the
reason.

you like this
crap?
you like this literary
chit chat and
mauling?
I’m doing it now,
I’m becoming a
little carping
bitch.
soon I too will
be hanging around
the cafes
sitting at tables
with the luminaries,
smiling at the
camera,
wanting to be part
of that
history,
somebody sitting
with Ferlinghetti,
somebody sitting with
Ginsberg, Corso,
McClure, etc.
smiling, being
gently snobbish and
maybe great
together.

I say, fuck those
guys.
I want nothing to do
with them.
or that little
suckerfish,
that complaining
untalented
flea-bitch.

being 70 now
I could crush him
with one
hand.
but better yet,
and deservedly
so, to destroy
him with a
poem.