I'm close to catching up, I swear.
John Wieners Advises Against the End
I met John Wieners last night alive as you or me.
On Joy Street the light backfired from windows
screened and shut against the lean wind thrown
up from Cambridge Street and the tea-house
we had dinner in, me & John. I asked him about
the Hotel Wentley poems and he gently brushed
me off. I have new things now, he said, showed me
a blank page with a ripped out newspaper snapshot
of Marilyn Monroe. Can't you see it? he said. It's, well,
it's not much but it's better than dying. We sat in his
apartment after. You're so cynical, he said, hands flitting
like a slowed-down hummingbird, like something that
won't last another moment. I want some ice cream, he
said. And watch out for your friend there. He motioned
to my silent companion, Death. His poems don't suit you.