how much is
too much?
how much cake and condiments
chocolate decadence crushed
nuts on whipped cream dreams
sugar wafers extra sugar salad
on the
side hell on both sides
cointreau soaked fresh fruit
panne bread
garlic butter spread
all the way to the edge of the toast
cinnamon and
sugar coffee latte
mint cookie not to mention
entrees wellington well
done
spanakopita shepherd's pie
en crustade layered lasagna
mozarella moshed ricotta
enough to make an angel weep
kate smith sing
another song
liz let out another inch shelley bed
another star-struck
boy rosie bite
a dog vanessa stop watching
a Boston
ballerina dies
for want of bone Paris models
with sunken eyes shoot
horses
in a world where children starve
there are no easy menus no
compassionate cuisine only
secrets in every house in every
kitchen in
every heavy heart.
around here
without hitting
a poet or novelist these days
dime a dozen like my
daddy's
cheap detective magazines
back in the fifties as if any of 'em
know what the hell I'm talking about.
we used to
have integrity once
or twice a month shit I knew I would
never be left
alone or without a drink
there was always something
jumpin' somebody
laying low
someone to sleep with course
that had another set of
problems
there was that woman in Tucson
used to say her crabs had the
clap
she was telling the truth too.
we'd put on
the Doors or the White album
smoke weed until we were comatose
watching the candle dance on the adobe
as if it meant something maybe
Gilman
would have some sweet hash there was
that time Pfieffer jumped
the train with
a couple of Black Panthers on the run
standing out on
the porch watching
the stoplight change talking about the whole
goddamn universe being a celluloid
moebius strip slept on the floor
landlady came by the next morning
said we were all pigs but didn't throw
us out we were fine buncha crappa
always paid on time in spite of our
intense recreational illegal activities
we weren't dopers we were
intellectuals.
reading poems
with gravity Jim would blow
smoke in my face but I never cracked if Steve
wasn't there he'd try other things that sometimes
worked but that's better
left unsaid my words
transcended thought he told me I'd tell him the future
none of it came true except we never
married and I'm still writing poetry
pulling lint out of my navel and calling it art.
