Hugh Fox

WHAT DO I?

What do I give a crap about all your
fancy French romantic country mansions
and your goddamned DMP's, you know,
Doctor of Musical Performance, I can't
even believe how many Russians,
Armenians, Chinese, Brazilian, Englishers
there are around here, and old Chicago street
me going to the Chopin and Schumann festivals,
married to a Brazilian M.D., retired after teaching
English literature for fifty years, when all I ever
really felt/feel comfortable with were/are the
Chicago, Brooklyn, whore-area bars in Paris,
dying from cancer now, "You've got maybe
a year, a year and a half...," prostate into
bladder, going everywhere else, I'm supposed
to believe in heaven and all that, but just believe
in graves, eighty-five years of women, liquor,
lots of criticism published, travel-grants, you
name it, Bukowski's best pal, my best autobiography
named WAY, WAY OFF THE ROAD to echo
Kerouac's OFF THE ROAD, wishing there was an
after-death L.A. - San Francisco out there waiting
for me, to just keep doing our thing forever, and
that's what I mean for....ever.....