Sunday, March 17, 2013

4198. MAKING MINE THE PATHETIC WRETCH

MAKING MINE THE
PATHETIC WRETCH
I've summered on the high seas, ending up in
California, after leaving Peru. I've stayed for days
at Point Dume, thinking of nothing and walking
the sands. My boats have come and faltered,
listed and sunk. I walked away, always unharmed.
The edge of my frost is the edge of my music -
steadfast I sing and stand alone. I am, truly, a
pathetic wretch. Now my schedule calls for Europe,
a passing month of frenzy after lighting down in Rome.
Funny how they say that, because I don't consider
Rome to be Europe at all. After all, and anyway, I've
actually been asked, how can I go on living by being
angry all the time? It's just my way, I answered.
-
The waitress at the Olde Town Tavern, I gave her
once thirty dollars for the scene we'd made - noise
and clamor and rushing and a mess. She laughed it
off and said 'no problem; you won't be the last of it.'
Now, whenever I re-enter that old brick building I think
of her and hope she's there. Not always, but mostly
she is. If I could carry her away, I would.
-
Cocktails at two-thirty? That's OK with me, but what
I refuse to stand for is the clamor of a television on the
wall - that gets turned off or I don't show. I detest TV,
that marvelous Jewish marvel. I detest everything it tries
to define for others : the scent, the sense, the sound of
living. And all those names! Oh, everyone seems from
old Kiev. That's OK, but they should have remained.
-
My cards are over-dealt; my table-man's a lout, and
his sister, Marjorie, is the last person I'd think of
kissing. More a pout than a love affair, for sure.
Oh what a pathetic wretch am I.

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