Once I had a poetess friend
who mined rueful domestic goddess
verse through eighty proof
looking glasses
and a sense of tragicomedy
brought about when her
ex-husband caught her
en flagrante delicto
with a fellow poet
The ex-husband got the car
the money the kids
and left the former
domestic goddess
with nothing but her poetry
and a monthly tab
for child support plus alimony
I began to accompany her
to the readings
as a public service
to other unsuspecting poets
who might capture her fancy
after she had had a few
and then a few more
In those days I may have had
a few more myself
all the better
to appreciate
the poetry of my own ruined life
The reading I most remember
happened at the Celebrity Centre
an old brick castle
on Hollywood Blvd
in the part of Hollywood
more associated with
drunken vomit and dogshit
on the sidewalk
than movie stars
stars on the sidewalk
First up was the commercial
pitch from the owners
of the castle
Get clear
they exhorted the poets
Get clear!
Luckily I have
never been a joiner
I have had my chances
Hare Krishna
Manson Family
US Marines
Roman Catholic Church
California State Hospital
at Camarillo
any of which in fact
make as much sense
to me
as a lifestyle choice
than does scientology
Freedom consists
simply
in the ability
to say no
If only I
had recalled
Sartre’s dictum
when my first two
ex-wives proposed
marriage…
Poets packed
the house that night
some standing
lining the walls
This was the 1980s
and everyone in LA
from Henry Rollins
to Molly Ringwald
was a poet back then
Next up was the creative writing
professor from Cal State LA
A loud boorish
red faced poet
He wore the bushy mustache
and bug eyed eyeglasses
emblematic of the eighties
I became aware that he was
reciting directly
into the wrecked
face of the domestic goddess
I like your stuff!
I like your stuff!
I like your stuff!
he chanted
willing his outstretched
cupped hands toward
her wrecked breasts
Suddenly
I couldnt breathe
Le Nausee!
The stale poetry charged air
suffocated me
Outside
the night enveloped a cool damp
wash cloth
The fog shone
on the dead souls below
You could walk down the hillside
south of Hollywood Blvd
past all the lit up boxes
far as the eye could see
still redolent of Nathanael West
Charles Bukowski
and the other eight
million
poets laureate
who awaited death together
alone
on the edge of the
world
