Missing Versions

(For Bill Gainer)

I went looking for Bill’s (what’s his name?) book of poetry

And couldn’t find it, but started having thoughts about this and that;

Poetically of course.

So I ask myself,

Where’s that fucking book? Bill (last name forgotten)’s. little skinny paperback. Looks like a pulp novel only too small.

The one I begged him for and got free because no one buys poetry except fools like me, and it was stained. I hope with whiskey or beer, but probably with tea.

I finally got Peadar’s (Peadar O’Donoghue's) book all the way from Ireland.

And

Almost came when I saw the envelope with its customary customs sticker.

Then I read it and got really pissed off, so I invented a drink for my friend’s dead cat, then I put it down in my room somewhere and lost the fucking thing because I was looking for Bill (come on brain and remember his last name)’s book of poetry.

So I started reading Peadar’s book again and got re-pissed off.

Goddam you guys for finding those thoughts before me

Goddam you for have so much cool.

Fuck you all for enjoying your inebriation with words,

May you rot in hell for getting ideas in places I don’t

Even know exist.

And I looked too.

I searched my ragged rooms and couldn’t find Bill (what's his fuck?)’s book

But found Sinatra shaking his fist full of dice

And

I found CD’s of unplayed jazz impressionists

And

I found New Yorker magazines

And

 Found Anita O’Day and Allen Ginsberg

And

I found Gregory Corso and pictures of my friends on

A Philippine beach the day after I fell in love

And

I found California in books but I didn’t find Bill (whatever the hell his name is)’s goddam book that was about the size of another book

“All About Hawaiian” right next to “English As She Is Spoke”

And

Dictionaries and DVDs of Alejandro Jodorowsky and Pier Paolo Pasolini

And

Under all the clothing, books, papers, afghans on my couch

I found electronic attachments and more New Yorkers

And

I found phone bills

And

I found Christy and Heinlein and Bradbury

And

I found Asimov

And

Books I’ve borrowed from friends who’ve moved or died or

Stopped caring but I didn’t find Bill (last name unknown)’s book

But I found paintings and prints

And

A Barbie dressed like a Portuguese Princess and masks

And

A photo of my sister and a carving of Don Quixote

And

I found the drink I just made and invented and named for my

Friend’s dead cat but

I didn’t find Bill (what in the fucking hell is his last name)’s goddam book.

Part II

So I slept and finally, finally, finally

I dreamed about bees for fuck’s sake

And

I dreamed about living in some kind of damp, slippery

But with a high living standard, cave

Not quite above the tide line

And

Now the sun’s full up and that miserable, stained little volume

Of poetry finally, finally, finally showed up

Between Agatha Christy and Robert Heinlein a long way

From Silent Running

And

I can’t figure out how it got in there in alphabetical order

I sure didn’t mean to do that, but Gainer! His name is Gainer.

Bill Gainer, Bill Gainer, Bill Gainer

And

Every one of your little noirish

Bits makes me want to wear a

Fedora and a dark suit holding a

45 automatic

And

Say, “Hand over the verse, pal.”