I used to feel sorry for Henry Miller

when he got old he stopped writing, dabbled in
paints and put ads in the U.C.L.A. paper for
secretarial help.
Henry preferred the Oriental ladies, the young
ones
and they came by and did little things for
him
but he fell in love with them,
even though there was no sex.
he wrote them letters, all his writing went into
those letters.
and the ladies were flattered but simply went
on
teasing him.
he liked them around.
maybe he felt that they held death back a
little
or maybe they stopped him from thinking
about it so much
or maybe the old boy was simply
horny.

I remember a young lady who came by to
see me said,
“I was going to fuck Henry Miller before he
died but it was too late so I came to see
you.”
“forget it, baby,” I told her.

I liked the way Henry Miller looked in his
last years, like a wise Buddha
but he didn’t act like one.

I only wish he had gone out in a
different way,
not begging for it,
using his name.

I would have preferred to see him
emptying wine bottles and
writing away right into the face
of death.

and since he couldn’t do it.
well, maybe somebody else
can.
there’s some old fart
somewhere,
I’m sure
who can.

if he doesn’t diddle his brains
away at the
racetrack.