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
and they came by and did little things for
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
teasing him.
he liked them around.
maybe he felt that they held death back a
or maybe they stopped him from thinking
about it so much
or maybe the old boy was simply

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
“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
there’s some old fart
I’m sure
who can.

if he doesn’t diddle his brains
away at the