On the hustle

I suppose one of the worst times was when
After a drunken reading at an all night party

I promised to appear at an 11 o’clock English class
And there they sat,
Nicely dressed, terribly young
Awfully comfortable

I only wanted to sleep
I kept the wastebasket close, in case I puked
I think I was in the state of Nebraska, or Illinois, or Ohio

No more of this, I thought
I’ll go back to the factories
If they’ll have me

“Why do you write?” A young man asked
“Next question” I responded

A sweet birdie with blue eyes asked,
“Who are your 3 favorite contemporary writers?”
I answered, “Charles bukowski, Charles bukowski, and Charles bukowski

Somebody asked, “what do you think of Norman Mailer?”
I told them I didn’t think about Norman mailer
And then I asked, “doesn’t anybody have a beer?”
There was this silence, this continuing silence

And the class and the prof. Looked at me
And I looked at them
Then the sweet birdie with the blue eyes asked, “won’t you read us one of your poems?”

And then, that’s when I got up and walked out
I left them in there; with their prof.

And I walked down through the campus
Glancing at the young girls,
Their hair, their legs, Their eyes, their behinds
They all look so good I thought

But they’re going to grow up in nothing, and something, but trouble

Suddenly, I braced myself against the tree
And began puking

“Look at that old man!” A sweet birdie with brown eyes said to a sweet birdie with green eyes
“He’s really fucked up!”

The truth, at last.