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.”
