That Awful Pleasure

he has a leg that gives out when he runs
too far
and he always talks
about saving someone
someone pretty
and young
someone who has nothing left
to
lose
someone homeless or on dope
the kind that comes in more
forms and features
it comes like death
a different kind of death
a death that's a faster avenue than
madness and deliverance
he likes to talk a lot
about how one day
that person he'll save
will kill him with kindness
and sex will flow like dirty water
the kind that comes to
the people of Africa and other
places where heads are trophies for
children to use as soccer balls
places where we don't vacation to
ar think of as property to
be bought and sold
by men in bad suits and plaster
smiles like women
applying lipstick
you know the kind
the kind that drink in the
afternoon
and know nothing of poetry and the arts
who watch bad movies and drink
with friends
because drinking alone
is somehow beneath them
like they know better
than me
they have pleasure
an awful kind of living
an awful kind of pleasure
and he wants that kind of pleasure
I want that kind of pleasure
I hate writing sometimes
it's not therapy
it's not anything
you kill time with poetry
kill it with sharp sticks and
knives and bullets from paper guns
you burn acceptance letters from
places that don't pay
and save the letters
from the New Yorker
and Harper's and all the other places
that pay out checks with awful
signatures and look like the space
between the legs that caused the wars
that the old men fought in without question
because it was in those days those wars
those days that lingered like hot summers
that give relief only to
the rich
and bastards who steal from
their neighbors
to keep up with strangers who drive
fancy cars that give off no foul smell
when the drive downtown to jobs
that give the same awful
pleasure that he and I look for
because they are what we
were told we want
because there is no more suffering
when the awful pleasure
comes with dollar signs and
cheating wives
maybe I'll save someone
some day