Pests


This order of angels is higher
(they say) than the leggy, 
disapproving, doe-eyed androgynes;
so they indulge 
themselves more.  Besides the big,
pink, strategically-placed bows, 
the streaks in the ridiculous 
small wings, they’re sporting blue 
peaked caps, tattoos on their chubby arms  
(Death From Above, Semper Fi),
truncheons, and an attempt 
at a scowl on their cheeks as they flutter,

e.g., around the guy
in a long stained coat
who is making his way up the steps
between the alley of W St. and 
the Boulevard, waving his arms and begging 
to be Left Alone!  If they see you 
looking (you shouldn’t), they tell you to 
move on, and palm their
billy-clubs, and warn you
not to feel sorry for yourself.





Red in Blue


It wasn’t the sort of place 
I’d have thought a bastion of “us,” of 
“our” side, even if I’d viewed 
those other drinkers and eaters and
invaders of personal space as members 
of my “we.”  I mean, investment gangsters,
fashionable flacks, desk jockeys, consultants – 
I’m reaching here – as well as upper
profs, saleable artists, 
all sensitive ideologues who,
once having found themselves within a Suit,
cannot, nor would, for all their Wit, escape –
what had I to do with them?  One would have thought
the line, such as it is, was drawn
already.  But when THEY entered, we
were one – movers and shakers, the unmoved 
and shaken – staring without looking at four stray
bighairs and stringties
in unnatural fabrics,
with necks like arroyos,
chins raised above contagion,
eyes proud of seeing little,
and smiles like symbols
of rage.  They sat and ordered.
At least they didn’t pray –
though I wonder they didn’t
in the presence of their enemies.





Upper Room
     Acts 1:13

1

Nothing was right then.  The letter
from Elle arrived as M____’s
announcement of her intention 
to leave attacked
my digestion, peripheral nervous system and
ego, and I drove
to Eugene to save her.
(Elle.)  It was the sort of
blurred futile act typical 
of that era.  Eugene was Berkeley
put through a double wash cycle.  She was living
(Elle!) in a hole-
in-the-wall John had lived in but 
gave her, guilty.  He had
moved in with Sonya.  Sonya 
was poor.  She stood counting
pennies and some nickels for
a movie we were all supposed 
to see; I don’t know when
she started crying.  John, soon-to-be former
friend and poet, wore
a self-loathing grin aware
of its dreadfulness.  Elle, loving him, 
enraged but passive (the letter 
to me had been “a mistake”), 
sat.  I don’t know who said,
“The next life has to be better” –
John perhaps, but I think one
of the girls.  And I said, 
“The next life is a detailed
negation of this one.
It shows every thought
as merely a gesture.
It transfers to evil
what evil caused.  It gets us in shape
for our real purpose; we don’t know what that is.”
What I said was more eloquent, but I
forget.  I spoke with conviction.
They listened, wordless.


2

A year or so later, a job 
I’ve described ... When every tear
is dried and every martyr,
however petty, noted, there will be
a plaque on a wall near the corner
of California and Market for
the variously disturbed anhedonics
that man hired; and he will
tally his profits forever
with acid ink upon his own pale skin.
After months of dispirited shared
griping, I finally got  
Joan, the bulimic 
in the next cubicle, into bed
on three occasions in her white box 
apartment in Berkeley.  
Never mine.  And never
with even a pretence of pleasure
on her part.  “It isn’t naughty enough” –
as opposed to the 7/11 
at midnight, buying
party-snacks and chocolate 
enough to puke, then 
waking at six to run … Her looks
were going, the skin blotchy.  
Joylessly touring
an imbecile streetfair
on College Avenue, I asked her what 
had caused her;
and she described her sister
and her “going
downstairs to see Mama” – thinking
that this degree of cleanliness
of self or room, this
bow in the hair, or act, or grade
would finally earn
a hug from that psycho …
From beneath my self-pity,
pity surged, but encountered
her hollow whining voice 
saying, “I don’t know why I’m here ...”
“Where would you rather be?” I asked,
and to her silence suggested
back in her strewn bed,
with me flailing away,
and the cruel fleas of Berkeley biting my ankles.


3

In an emergency ward,
waiting for a shot
to kick in, or test results, or
a bed –
determined to be more
than fear – talking 
with a doctor
who was glad to have someone 
articulate and
more or less together
for a change
to talk to – and that
the ODs, 
shootings and crashes
had relented –

and admitted to awe –
beyond horror – almost
delight at the magnitude
of what can go wrong 
within and between people ... 

(No, not really.  Conversations like that 
occur, professionals break cover
in my mind, not in the world.)


4

From the beginning, the point of capitalism
was that the owners had
no need for noblesse oblige.
Possessive individualism, belief in 
success made the masses work
harder and was far more cost-efficient.

Teaching creative writing, I tell their children
they’re individuals, with precious unique viewpoints,
and urge them for that reason to avoid
cliché.  It’s the most distinctive
aspect of my teaching.  Of course I’m lying.