A little sequel I wrote--
it's called "The Lost Angel," it's a little poem
that I had a lot of fun with.
I wrote it very easily and I liked it,
I liked the way it moved.
I don't know if I like anything else about it,
but I l I love the way I got it to move,
and I was very pleased, because it moves so well.
And I sent it to the New Yorker, which
is a magazine in which I published quite frequently
and which I hate.
But I'm an American I love money,
and I hate it, because it's such a snotty snobby.
I mean, I have a feeling if I ever walked
into the pages of the New Yorker, would just all turn,
the lights would go out.
And I would hear a voice say, get him off the page.
He's too short, he's too clumsy, he's got the wrong accent,
he doesn't dress right, he's just not right
get him off the page.
And I would wake up in oh I don't know,
Ring or Motorcycle Digest.
Almost any other magazine except Screen,
but never in the New Yorker.
And when I sent him this poem and they
wanted me to change the ending they said, get the last stanza
off and we'll publish it.
And I didn't do it, it's one of the few times in my life
I was ever stubborn for the right reasons.
I started trying some of the other day about that--
I had this long poem, my wife and I were in Spain living
and we want to go to Italy and we didn't have enough money.
So I had this long poem and I sent it to the New Yorker,
there was an outhouse in the first stanza
and they wrote back.
And said, we really like this poem,
but we don't like the outhouse.
He said, there are no outhouses in the New Yorker.
And I thought about that for a long time.
[LAUGHTER]
Well, I thought about all the ads in the magazine for wine,
and whiskey, and cheese and good restaurants,
and I thought about how perfectly willing
they were to initiate a process--
[LAUGHTER]
They were unwilling to see to its fruition.
I know it's a sick goddam magazine.
I bet everybody on Wall Street, greed
that's why the country is so fucked up.
Why capitalists are so mean, because there are
no outhouses on Wall Street.
Let me read a little-- this poem is so innocent that when
I returned to it with all that it just quakes.
It's just about a little angel coming to the door.
The speaker in a poem doesn't-- the speaker is me and the New
Yorker, and we don't expect angels and we ain't going
to have them.
"The Lost Angel."
Four little children in winged costumes.
It has something to do with raising money.
Children are hungry, the one says, the one who can talk.
And they go down the drive in the driving rain
and there is no car to collect them, no one
waiting and the bills and coins spill from his trailing hand
and float like pieces of light.
Wait, wait I yell and run to gather what I can and he turns,
the one who can talk, holding his empty fists as offerings,
two shaking hammers, and gives me back my life.