Well, just to get rid of the perverse poems,
I'll read one more--
[LAUGHTER]
--that fits in with it.
It's a poem called "Tricks."
And I dedicated to the poem to some friends of mine, Jon
and Barbara Anderson, and Barbara asked me--
they couldn't figure out why it was
dedicated to them because it's such a perverse poem.
But the--
[LAUGHTER]
The attitude in the poem is of a gentle humor, I think.
And it was something that I felt was taught to me by those two
friends.
It's called "Tricks."
It's about being around people who
are driven by some eccentricity and can't sort of learn
themselves out of it, I guess.
"Tricks."
"Who can sleep with so much pain around?
I waved goodbye to the loveless.
Asleep and waking, dreaming of me.
From the insomniac sadist who prowls an empty room,
I steal his whip to tease him.
I pinch his fanny and leave.
In the subway, I toss a kiss to the exhibitionist
and close my eyes for who can change character?
Who but the devious priest will bruise his knees
for those whose lives are limited by pain?
They will not learn.
The amateur whore and the lonely clerk
who refuses the joys of flirtation
sit separately in the park and brood.
I send anonymous love notes.
I offer desire with Vaseline and roses with thorns for who else
will play tricks with love in his heart?
Today, I marry a widow, and tomorrow, a man.
And tonight, in a tavern, I meet a reluctant poet whose
penis is smaller than mine.
I refuse to measure for that as his lot.
In another mood, I might tell the right lie and guide
their worst fears to the edge of madness
and push and wait at the bottom with my net.
There is something at the same time pursues and leans
inside me.
It is my other half.
When I weep the bitter tears, it laps them up
and laughs and lies down tired and refreshed.
Each night, I plunge to the limits of heart's desire
and stroke its belly and count the stars circling my head.
On off nights, it digs a hole in my right hand
and says, love thyself.
Who else has the time?"
OK.
Let me change the mood a little bit.