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asking,
    “anybody under there?”
    there are medical terms for
    fear of height
    for
    fear of
    enclosed spaces.
    there are medical terms for
    any number of
    maladies
    so
    there must be a medical term
    for:
    “too many people.”
    I’ve been stricken with
    this malady
    all my life:
    there has always been
    “too many people.”
    I saw too many faces
    today, hundreds of
    them

    with eyes, ears, lips,
    mouths, chins and so
    forth
    and
    I’ve been alone
    for several hours
    now
    and
    I feel that I am
    recovering.
    which is the good part
    but the problem
    remains
    that I know I’m going to
    have to go out there
    among them
    again.

moving toward the dark
    if we can’t find the courage to go on,
    what will we do?
    what should we do?
    what would you do?
    if we can’t find the courage to go on,
    then
    what day
    what minute
    in what year
    did we go
    wrong?
    or was it an accumulation of all the
    years?
    I have some answers.
    to die, yes.
    to go mad, maybe.
    or perhaps to
    gamble everything away?
    if we can’t find the courage to go on,
    what should we do?
    what did all the others
    do?
    they went on
    living their lives,
    badly.

    we’ll do the same,
    probably.
    living too long
    takes more than
    time.

the real thing
    yes, I know that you think
    I am wrong
    but
    I know what is right for me
    and what
    is not.
    may I tell you my
    dream? 
    I am surrounded by
    thick cement walls,
    I am dressed in a red
    robe
    and I am sitting at an
    organ.
    there is
    not a
    sound.
    I begin to play the
    organ.
    the hiss of the notes
    is sharp and soft
    at the same
    time. 
    it is a slightly bitter
    music
    but among the dark notes
    there are flashes of light and
    laughter.

    as I play,
    the incomprehensible mystery
    of the past
    and of the present
    becomes
    comprehensible. 
    and best of all,
    as I play,
    nobody hears the music
    but me. 
    the music is only for
    me. 
    that is my
    dream. 

she looked at me and asked,
did you?
did you?
did you?

on the cuff
    Jane would awaken early
    (and 8:30 a.m. is early
    when you go to bed at
    dawn). 
    she would awaken crying and bitching
    for a drink. 
    she’d keep at it, bitching and wailing,
    just laying there flat on her back
    and running all that noise
    through my
    hangover. 
    until finally, I’d leap out of bed
    landing hard on my feet. “ALL RIGHT,
    ALL RIGHT, GOD DAMN IT, SHUT UP!” 
    and I’d climb into the same pants, the
    same shirt, the same dirty socks, I was
    unshaven, unbrushed, young and mad—
    mad, yes, to be shacked with a woman
    ten years older than
    I.  
    no job, behind in the rent, the same tired old
    script. 
    down three flights of stairs and out
    the back way
    (the apartment house manager hung out
    by the front entrance,
    Mr. Notes-under-the-door, Mr.
    Cop-caller, Mr. Listen-we-have-only-nice-
    tenants-here). 
    then down the hill to the liquor
    store around the corner, old Don Kaufman
    who wired all the bottles
    to the counter, even the cheap
    stuff. 
    and Don would see me coming, “no, no,
    not today!” 
    he meant no booze without
    cash, I was into him pretty deep
    but each time I looked at all
    those bottles
    I got angry because
    he didn’t need all those
    bottles. 
    “Don, I want 3 bottles of cheap
    wine.”
    “oh no, Hank.” 
    he was an old man, I terrorized
    him and part of me felt bad
    doing it.
    the old fart should have
    blown me away
    with his handgun. 

    “Hank, you used to be such a nice
    man, such a gentleman.
    what’s happened?” 
    “look, Don, I don’t want a character
    analysis, I want 3 bottles of cheap
    wine.”
    “when are you going to pay?” 
    “Don, I’m going to get an income tax
    refund any day
    now.” 
    “I can’t let you have anything,
    Hank.” 
    then I’d take hold of the counter
    and begin rocking it, ripping at it,
    the bottles rattling, joints and seams
    giving way 
    all the while
    cussing my ass
    off. 
    “all right, Hank, all
    right! ” 

    then
    back up the hill, back through
    the rear entrance, up the three
    flights