Dirty Poem

listening to ancient organ music
on the radio while
sitting at this machine and
drinking wine.

there is a letter from a girl
at Vassar.
she writes that she is
doing a paper on me:
“Vulgar Literature”.

and there is the usual
question:    why do you

I always seem to answer
that question in a different
each time it’s asked,
only this time
it has been preceeded by
certain inferences
so I feel that the question is
phrased to mean:
why do you both to
when there are so many good
writers around?

well, like right now
I’m typing
and it’s something
to do
while I’m drinking.
I don’t have to
sit on a couch and
look at a wall.

I’m quite comfortable
right now
sitting in my shorts
nobody around.

to me
there’s no agony
in writing
no lonliness.

I don’t suffer
getting these words down
although you
may suffer reading them.

I don’t think
there are
any good writers

I am sent books
through the mail
supposedly written
by the premier writers
of our time.

when I have trouble
sleeping at night
I tell my girlfriend,
“please pass me
one of those books
written by
a master writer.”

“which one?”
she asks.

I begin reading.
I can’t go more than
2 or 3 pages
before the heaviness

the book falls
to the floor and
I am barely able to
turn off the lamp.

as long as the world
is full of
great writers
I’ll never have

I’m proud, though, that
my literature is considered
Vulgar Literature
by somebody at Vassar.

one of my 3 cats
puked on the floor
and I threw it
out into the
rain. (it’s

I lost $40
at the track
and I’m somewhat

I’ve been playing
the horses for
43 years;
it’s for the want
of anything
reasonable to

(why don’t you
paint?   go to museums?
travel?   take

on the radio there’s
more organ music
I like it,
dark and heavy sounds
in the rain.

I can feel blood,
murder and madness

it’s a fine night
filling this glass
again and again
with this
thick red wine.

some are good at
keeping shit stains
out of the toilet,
others at
polishing the mirrors
of their vanity.
some are good at
on the upgrade, others
sucking dick.

as drippings from
thin minds
spill from their tongues

I type.