Read Toca el piano borracho como un instrumento de percusión hasta que los dedos te empiecen a sangrar un poco for Free Online Page B

showered with the boys at the
    plant
    after work
    so I smelled of sweat and
    blood.
    the smell of sweat lessens after a
    while
    but the blood-smell begins to fulminate
    and gain power.
    I smoked cigarettes and drank beer
    until I felt good enough to
    board the bus
    with the souls of all those dead
    animals riding with
    me;
    heads would turn slightly
    women would rise and move away from
    me.
    when I got off the bus
    I only had a block to walk
    and one stairway up to my
    room
    where I’d turn on my radio and
    light a cigarette
    and nobody minded me
    at all.

another argument
    she had an uncle who sniffed her
    panties by
    firelight while eating
    crackerjack and
    muffins with honey,
    she sat across from me
    in that Chinese place
    the drinks kept coming and she
    talked about Matisse, Iranian
    coins, fingerbowls at Cambridge, Pound
    at Salerno, Plato at
    Madagascar, the death of
    Schopenhauer, and the times she and
    I had been together and
    ebullient.
    drunk in the afternoon
    I knew she had kept me too long
    and when I got back to the other
    she was
    raving
    underprivileged
    pissed and
    bloody unorthodox burning
    mad.
    then she said it didn’t matter anymore
    and I felt like saying
    what do you mean it doesn’t matter anymore?
    how can you say it about anything, least of
    all us? where are your eyes and your feet
    and your head? if the thin blue marching of troops is
    correct, we are all about to be
    murdered.

the red porsche
    it feels good
    to be driven about in a red
    porsche
    by a woman better—
    read than I
    am.
    it feels good
    to be driven about in a red
    porsche
    by a woman who can explain
    things about
    classical
    music to
    me.
    it feels good
    to be driven about in a red
    porsche
    by a woman who buys
    things for my refrigerator
    and my
    kitchen:
    cherries, plums, lettuce, celery,
    green onions, brown onions,
    eggs, muffins, long
    chilis, brown sugar,
    Italian seasoning, oregano, white
    wine vinegar, pompeian olive oil
    and red
    radishes.
    I like being driven about
    in a red porsche
    while I smoke cigarettes in
    gentle languor.
    I’m lucky. I’ve always been
    lucky:
    even when I was starving to death
    the bands were playing for
    me.
    but the red porsche is very nice
    and she is
    too, and
    I’ve learned to feel good when
    I feel good.
    it’s better to be driven around in a
    red porsche
    than to own
    one. the luck of the fool is
    inviolate.

some picnic
    which reminds me
    I shacked with Jane for 7 years
    she was a drunk
    I loved her
    my Parents hated her
    I hated my parents
    it made a nice
    foursome
    one day we went on a picnic
    together
    up in the hills
    and we played cards and drank beer and
    ate potato salad and weenies
    they talked to her as if she were a living person
    at last
    everybody laughed
    I didn’t laugh.
    later at my place
    over the whiskey
    I said to her,
    I don’t like them
    but it’s good they treated you
    nice.
    you damn fool, she said,
    don’t you see?
    see what?
    they keep looking at my beer-belly,
    they think I’m
    pregnant.
    oh, I said, well here’s to our beautiful
    child.
    here’s to our beautiful child,
    she said.
    we drank them down.

the drill
    our marriage book, it
    says.
    I look through it.
    they lasted ten years.
    they were young once.
    now I sleep in her bed.
    he phones her:
    “I want my drill back.
    have it ready.
    I’ll pick the children up at
    ten.”
    when he arrives he waits outside
    the door.
    his children leave with
    him.
    she comes back to bed
    and I stretch a leg out
    place it against hers.
    I was young once too.
    human relationships simply aren’t
    durable.
    I think back to the women in
    my life.
    they seem non-existent.
    “did he get his drill?” I ask.
    “yes, he got his drill.”
    I wonder if I’ll ever have to come
    back for my bermuda
    shorts and my record album
    by The Academy of St. Martin in the
    Fields? I suppose I
    will.

40,000 flies
    torn by a temporary wind
    we come back together again
    check walls and ceilings for cracks and
    the eternal