Last Poem

Before I began life this time I took a crash course in Counter-Intelligence Once here I signed in, see name below, and added Some words remembered from an earlier time, 'The intention of the organism is to survive.' My earliest, & happiest, memories pre-date WWII, They involve a glass slipper & a helpless blue rose In a slender blue single-rose vase: Mine Was a story without a plot. The days of my years Folded into one another, an easy fit, in which I made money & spent it, learned to dance & forgot, gave Blood, regained my poise, & verbalized myself a place In Society. 101 St. Mark's Place, apt. 12A, NYC 10009 New York. Friends appeared & disappeared, or wigged out, Or stayed; inspiring strangers sadly died; everyone I ever knew aged tremendously, except me. I remained Somewhere between 2 and 9 years old. But frequent Reification of my own experiences delivered to me Several new vocabularies, I loved that almost most of all. I once had the honor of meeting Beckett & I dug him. The pills kept me going, until now. Love, & work, Were my great happinesses, that other people die the source Of my great, terrible, & inarticulate one grief. In my time I grew tall & huge of frame, obviously possessed Of a disconnected head, I had a perfect heart. The end Came quickly & completely without pain, one quiet night as I Was sitting, writing, next to you in bed, words chosen randomly From a tired brain, it, like them, suitable, & fitting. Let none regret my end who called me friend.