the slob

from the beginning I have always typed as if the typewriter were in
hock and often it was, I always typed or hand-printed in rooms so
foul with disarray that even my own mind could not believe it but
I lifted legs high in order to move across the room at one time or
another to uncork a new bottle or to look for smokes and wherever I
lived the mounds of moil became higher and higher   quickly but I only
considered this a temporary or contemporary madness but it’s not
true for I have somehow found myself living in this house which I now
totally own but I am still in this small room here and again there are
mounds of moil and some are the same: bottles and sundry trash but
there are other hazards: books spilled across the floor–my books
translated into 7 or 8 different tongues
boxes of letters
critical reviews
magazines
stacks of fallen books and magazines
many of them just shoved into a giant pile into the northeast corner and
it appears that I might even be famous but having known the famous of the
past and always having a feeling for them that is less than awe I reserve
the same clemency for myself and now I am drunk again
move toward the other side of the room
step upon a large totally empty brown bag
find my favorite wine open between Bludni Sin and Webster’s Dictionary of
the English Language
move with the opener toward the new bottle and the typewriter.
it is these walls
Shostakovich pissing in the bathroom
Auden teaching me the delicacy of the line which reaches the heart as
the scream is muffled
and now look I have played a bit
and I take this piece of paper from this machine (or I am about to)
(can’t kid you, can I?)
as all about me sit mounds and mounds of useless and mostly unknown
trash
but like I said–I have always from the beginning typed this way
rudely against these surroundings placed here by you by me
by something
by the lazy chance of dying someday with ears eyes legs intestines
bung-hole–
that dark dirty mess
that mess of dirty dark
you see?
you understand?
I am always getting
ready.

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