ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS

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  keyword(s) in poems:

Sequence: 3

BE DIGITAL
and believe what falls between your fingers...

DAYLIGHT FARM SUPPLY
wet lawns along the river...

ASKING FOR HELP
the one I want...

BYE BYE
to be commanded to sit down...

HEAVEN AND HELL
Understand me: I was the boy...

MY FACE IN THE MIRROR
what have you done...

MESSAGE
there is a line...

ALERT
televangelists and...

ANNOUNCEMENT
the modern boat is sinking!...

NO MISTAKES
understand me: I am the musician...

FINDING
my eyes if I should lose them...

LOVE POEM
sh! the poet is sleeping...

AFTER
the crowd without its beggar...

AGAINST IMMORTALITY
I don't want to live forever...

ADJUST
At last the flow of water has changed:...

PROTESTANT MEMORY
to keep myself from crying...

DOWNPOUR
the cats come in...

RELIGIOUS SCENE
on the wall of the steakhouse...

ON MY CARPET
he calls it his...

APPEAL
your honors...

SONG OF CONFESSION
my heart a poisoned well...

DRIVING
the black femur...

INTERSECTION
the corner of lost memory...

FIRST COLD DAY
in the back yard...

THEFT OF A LINE FROM SIMIC
dark night...

EXAMINATION
reading the heart's...

ABSURD
to say...

NEVER COMPLETE
bowing like a long-necked bird...

AS HE SHIFTS THEM
In the back pew of...

untitled
this poetry...

END OF THE EIGHTIES
the story takes...

12/31/91
outside in...

IN A CAR
we're in California...

MORNING INCIDENT
Getting up to let the cat in I felt myself growing weak,...

untitled
you wiped out...

4/3/92
a dream...

FAILING TO RECOGNIZE
even as it occurred...

ROCK PAINTING
the dance I did...

REFUSING TO UNDERSTAND
what comes from the dog's mouth...

NIGHTWORK
the secret government...

ODE TO THE FRIENDS OF POETRY
the friends of poetry...

LOCATION
rights and privileges...

SENSE OF AN ENDING
the last breath I...



PERSONAL APPEARANCE BY THE AUTHOR


I didn't shave or comb my hair this morning.  The long coat
I wear is very handsome, but all the buttons are missing, and
the lining is torn.  I go into a diner where I'm not known
and sit at the counter.  The waitress has clearly given a lot
of attention to her make-up, but the end result is similar to
embalming fluid.  I look down the counter and I see a guy who
reminds me vaguely of Bukowski sitting three stools away,
hunched over a cup of coffee.  He looks ill.  I pick up a dis-
tant aroma and wonder if it is him. "Fuckwad pansy," he says,
"how can you sit there and not shoot yourself?" I am terribly
terribly torn--on the one hand, I want to show that I instantly
understood his presence there, and his commentary on mine; on
the other, anything but rank flattery is likely to piss him off.
I sign to the waitress, who I now see looks like Marianne Moore.
Gesturing, I say quietly, "Give him a piece of pie.  On me."
She smiles, shaking her head, but goes off to get the pie any-
way.  I stare at my water glass.  What have I written that has
any worth?  Is there any way to persuade my public that I'm
for real?