Decided to throw all of
My books out today
because of
they are falling
off of the shelves
and in the case of
the trials of Wilde bios
I’m fed up with the
Otherwise I’ve noticed
Their weight lurking
I’ve stayed too long at this mental
Orgy Frank O’Hara was screaming
As his complete works fell on
My big toe
Ferlinghetti Alfredo
All of the men that
John Cheever screwed are
Lining up
I don’t even know when
Or where I couldn’t have gotten
A first edition of One Day in
The Life of Ivan Denisovich,
But it was there, dust jacket
Intact and just a little foxing
From Solzhenitsyn,
Must have been when he rubbed
Snow on his chest to ward off
Prison tb.
Of course it will be hard to
Part with Truman, Tennessee
And Gore even though they
Are busting out a shelf with
Intellectual menage camp
And my signed copies of Ned’
S diaries is like assigning
Myself to permanent celibacy.
Don’t I have anything by women?
Austin & Proust,
Thank the gods.
Did I really collect screenplays
By Igmar Bergman, must have
Been part having a
Psychotic episode.
Salvation, Shakespeare, Moliere
And Isherwood’s diaries
His eyes cursing me
For filth
For coveting
Then I picked up Greene and
Lost sensation in my right hand
Well if he goes, so does Eliot.
What’s to remain?
There really only seems to be room
For Nijinsky Dancing.