Ray

LIX

The thrill the suspense the spontaneity are all hanging suspended by one ankle.

There is one pompous tall bully I know

Who shall be served.

He shall perish in the hot foam of his cruel absurdity. He shall be boiled alive.

His own power glide shall run him over.

His snide poems shall be twisted screw-wise up his organ’s exit.

Then we bring on the major stuff.

Rumors, backbiting, the hissing intimations.

That was a poem scratched out by yours truly when he had had a long season of no nooky. But now my loneliness is not preying on me as in the old days.

“What are you doing, Doctor?” says the new nurse.

“Writing a poem,” says I. “Getting myself my own medicine.”

“Oh,” she says. “I always loved poetry absolutely to pieces!”

Here’s some nooky, thinks I.

She was about twenty-three and the nurse’s dress fit her okay. She was green-eyed, svelte, with ample bosom, etc. There wasn’t the hard face of stupidity such as you see on most nurses. My eyes go to her feet and even there I see a bit of style. Some kind of trim-line whites showing a great deal of the fetching ankle and the blue veins Ray loves.

“I liked your lectures on nervous anxiety last year,” says she.

I’m just grooving on those veins in her feet.

Says she, “Would you read me one of your poems? God, a doctor who writes poems.”

“Let’s fuck instead’ says I. “What do we have?“

“Nothing. A couple of grown babies with runny noses. One of them’s a woman who demands to see you personally.”

“Who is it?”

“She’s the suicidal Lebanese one that leases the Learjet through her law firm.”

“Okay,” I say, “we’ll fuck tomorrow.”

I pass by the mirror and see I’m still semihandsome. But you can never trust your own way of seeing.