the E was all right

I know what you think but when I went to Dallas I lost one of your
letters in the Dallas-Fort Worth airport bar.
now I hear whisperings from the mafioso:   “Buk’s had some luck.
He’s forgotten us…”
I haven’t forgotten you:   I’ve been scrambling around with bad
drink and bad women, so, well, I’m listening to jazz tonight
and I’ve been to Paris, but I’m in as much trouble as ever–
you know my nature for the stink of that:   when you came to L.A.
last time you found me sitting on the couch with this cross-eyed
kitten who had just been out from under 4 electro shock
she claimed she had fucked God in the madhouse and I believed
then your son brought over a nurse one night for me to fuck
and he also put me onto vitamin E.
look, I remember how we used to drink for weeks for months
together giving names to the roaches on the walls,
me talking about my hatred of the spider and my bad luck
with the whores while that 6-pack bulldog had me by the
throat, so we named the roaches and lit cigarettes and blew
smoke upon their backs and never killed them.
now things get harder and have less grace.
but I remember.   yet there’s one thing–that nurse
your son brought over that night as a gift to my literary
talents:   I never wrote that badly, Gypsy, and you know