my lucky friend

my lucky friend
he writes about demons
he lives down by the ocean and
he writes about demons.

he seldom leaves his place
he consorts with his demons
and his tanks of fish.

he breaks his hash with a pliers
we put our feet on the coffeetable
and talk about women and demons.

his women tap on his window at 3 a.m.
he fucks them and sends them away
the demons remain.

those demons have staying power.

“You are the best demon writer of
this century,” I tell him.

“You’re pretty damned good yourself,”
he answers.

the trees outside have long crooked arms
and keep out the sun.
the ocean is barely heard.

when I leave
three of four of his demons get into my car
I hear them talking to each other
as I drive.

I let them off at Pico and LaBrea.
then a couple of blocks up I stop
for a taco and a coffee.