my comrades

this one teaches.
and that one lives with his mother.
and that one is supported by a red-faced alcoholic
with the brain of a gnat.
this one takes speed and has been supported by
the same woman for 14 years.
that one writes a hack novel every ten days
but at least pays his own rent.
this one goes from place to place
sleeping on couches, drinking and making his
spiel.
this one prints his own books on a duplicating
machine.
that one lives in an abandoned show room
in a Hollywood hotel and steals record albums.
this one seems to know how to get grant after grant,
his life is a   filling-out of forms.
this one is simply rich and lives in the most artistic
places while knocking on the most artistic doors.
that one once had breakfast with William Carlos
Williams.
and this one teaches.
and that one teaches.
and this one puts out textbooks on how to do it
and speaks in a cruel and dominating voice.

they are everywhere
everybody is a writer.
and almost every writer is a poet.
poets poets poets   poets poets poets
poets poets poets   poets poets poets
I’ve met too many of them.

the next time the phone rings
it will be a    poet.
the next person at the door
will be a poet.
this one teaches
and that one lives with his mother
and that   one is writing the life   story of
Ezra Pound.
oh, brothers, we are the   sickest and the
lowest of the breed.