I walk onto the blazing sunshine. the whole day is mine - temporarily, anyhow.

Estaba sentado en un taburete del 8-Count, sin pensar en nada en particular, como por ejemplo qué hacía yo allí bebiendo whisky con agua. Quizá fuese porque Marie se pasaba todo el tiempo protestando porque yo quería ir a clase de vuelo. Aunque ella siempre estaba protestando por algo. No me malinterpreten, ella era un alma más o menos buena, pero el mundo está lleno de almas más o menos buenas y mira dónde estamos: siempre sentados en el último segundo de cada minuto. Bueno, ya se sabe. De todas formas, era tarde y yo estaba sentado junto a aquel tipo mayor que llevaba un jersey de cuello vuelto naranja y pantalones cortos. De vez en cuando me miraba y sonreía, pero yo no le hacía caso. Realmente no tenía ganas de escuchar ninguna conversación típica de barra. Quiero decir que, cuando se está sentado sobre el último segundo de cada minuto, lo mejor es evitar las chorradas. El tiempo es oro, ¿no?

frankly, i was horrified by life, at what a man had to do simply in order to eat, sleep and keep himself clothed. so i stayed in bed and drank. when you drank the world was still out there but for the moment it didnt have you by the throat

if I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside

on my fingertips
and at brain edges

and in centers
centers
of what I am of
what remains.

For Jane

225 days under grass

and you know more than I.

they have long taken your blood,

you are a dry stick in a basket.

is this how it works?

in this room

the hours of love

still make shadows.

when you left

you took almost

everything.

I kneel in the nights

before tigers

that will not let me be.

what you were

will not happen again.

the tigers have found me

and I do not care.

a medida que continúa el juego

deberías procurar decir cada vez más claro

lo que de veras

crees

incluso si lo que de veras

crees

resulta

equivocado.

culminación del dolor.

oigo incluso cómo ríen

las montañas

arriba y abajo de sus azules laderas

y abajo en el agua

los peces lloran

y toda el agua

son sus lágrimas.

oigo el agua

las noches que consumo bebiendo

y la tristeza se hace tan grande

que la oigo en mi reloj

se vuelve pomos en la cómoda

se vuelve papel sobre el suelo

se vuelve calzador

ticket de la lavandería

se vuelve

humo de cigarrillo

escalando un templo de oscuras enredaderas...

poco importa

poco amor

o poca vida

no es tan malo

lo que cuenta

es observar las paredes

yo nací para eso

nací para robar rosas de las avenidas de la muerte.

terrible arguments.

and, at last, lying peacefully

on her large bed

which is

spread in red with cool patterns of flowers,

my head and belly down

head sideways

sprayed by shaded light

as she bathes quietly in the

other room,

ist is all beyond me,

as most things are,

I listen to classical music on the small radio,

she bathes, I hear the splashing of water.

“Love…is kinda like…you know when you see a fog in the morning when you wake up before the sun comes out? It’s just there a little while, then it burns away. It burns away…quickly. Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality.”

don't undress my love
you might find a mannequin:
don't undress the mannequin
you might find
my love.

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
don’t swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself
and
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
never
categorize you.

reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented.

be self-taught.

and reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to
you.

and you invented me
and I invented you
and that's why we don't
get along
on this bed
any longer.
you were the world's
greatest invention
until you
flushed me
away.

now it's your turn
to wait for the touch
of the handle.
somebody will do it
to you,
bitch,
and if they don't
you will -
mixed with your own
green or yellow or white
or blue
or lavender
goodbye.

I need a good woman, I need a good woman

more than I need this typewriter, more than

I need my automobile, more than I need

Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I

can taste her in the air, I can feel her

at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built

for her feet to walk upon,

I can see pillows for her head,

I can feel my waiting laughter,

I can see her petting a cat,

I can see her sleeping,

I can see her slippers on the floor.

I know that she exists

but where is she upon this earth

as the whores keep finding me?

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.

For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.

there is no hell like your own hell,

none can compare,

twisting in the sheets at night,

your ass freezing,

your mind on fire,

everything stupid, stupid,

as you are stuck in your poor body and in

your poor life

and it's all slowly dissolving , dissolving

into nothing.

like all other bodies, like all the other

lives,

we all are being counted out,

taken down

by disease

by just being rubbed up against

the hard days, the harder days.

there's no escaping

this,

we just have to take it,

accept it---

or like most---

not think about it.

at all.

shoes off and on.

holidays come and gone.

hello,

goodbye,

dress, undress,

eat, sleep.

drive an automobile.

pay your taxes.

wash under the arms and

behind the neck

and scrub everything

else, for sure.

pick your coffin ahead

of time.

feel the smooth wood.

go for the soft, padded, expensive

interior.

the salesman will commend you

on your good

taste.

then horrify him.

tell him you want to try it for

size.

there's no hell like your own

hell and there's nobody else

ever

to share it with

you.

you might as well be the only

person left on earth.

sometimes you feel as if you

were.

and maybe you are.

meanwhile, pluck the lint from

your belly button,

accept what is,

get laid once in a while,

shake hands with nothing at all.

it's always been like this, it's always been like

this.

don't scream.

there's nobody left to hear

you.

strange things,

strange things these cities, the trees,

our feet walking the sidewalks,

the blood inside us

lubricating our

hearts,

the centuries finally shot apart

as you slip on your stockings and pull them

up over your

ankles.

There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out,
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you