the gigolo

everything is done on the credit card–
the drinks, the motels, the fine meals;
everything except getting your toenails and
hair cut at one a.m., she does that.
literature pays off, you see, even if you are a
son of a bitch.   it’s nice being the gigolo,
the old dandy, playing bored, maybe even being
bored while driven along a Sunday shoreline–
“like this,” she says, “you smoke it like a cigarette
and pass low.”   we smoke them like cigarettes and
pass low.
everybody out there is 18 years old,
the old hide inside their places
ashamed of their way and their age–
they’ve been scared off the coasts of America.
we pass low, get out and look at
thrift shops, art shows, get drinks, all
she is happy being with me; I am contented
being with her.
the sun boils down senselessly.   we
pass low
drive on
radio on
radio off…

oilwells, surfboards, sand, water, sun yes the sun
seagulls, sidewalks, streets, shops shops shops

you eat 3 times, fuck once and try to stay

there’s a glass church and there’s John Lilly’s tent
pitched above a cliff and John Lilly’s soul walks
inside the eyes of the young rich we

get out now–here’s a bookstore, and in the
middle of the street she says, “look, it’s your book,
your book is in the window!”
and I say, “let’s go, I don’t want to go

we get back in the car
we’re going back to
North Hollywood

there will be a minor argument tonight

I will be snarling at tv while
crouched in the giant bed
the other woman will enter my mind
and then run down to my gut and start beating there
like a dozen little fists

and this one will enter the room about then
and bring me
baked potatoes
and I will balance it about me
apply salt and pepper
and she will ask,
“is everything all right?”
and I will say,
“oh, yes.”
her 16 year old son will arrive in July
and I must meet him.
“he’ll love you,” she says.
“yeh?” I say.

well, you see, I’ve written all these books
the last one has been entered for the Pulitzer
“my love,” she’ll say, “is everything all right?”
“hell yes,” I’ll say, “oh hell yes…”