Sally in our Alley

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THEY FOUND THIS CHICK, this Sally, lying on her stomach, behind the garbage cans. Somebody had tried to separate her from her head, and they’d come pretty close; looked like a dull bread knife.

Actually, I’d have found her myself in a couple of hours, when I came to sweep out the rear doorway at 3126 McMurdo Alley. I’m the janitor there. I mean, it’s not the best job in the world, but they give me the basement apartment at 3128 rent-free, plus twenty-five a week, so I janitor it up for the old Polack who owns the buildings. It gives me time to finish my epic.

I’m writing this epic poem about the destruction of the Great Wall of China, and you can yuck, but it’s a subject that’s needed talking about for a helluva long time. Besides, I like being a poet; it’s easier than working.

McMurdo Alley is glutted right now with the beat element. A bunch of lazy ne’er-do-wells all talking about Hegel and Kant and Nietzsche and writing The Great American Whatchamacallit. They’ll never do it, of course, they’re not like me, they’re all phonies. Besides, they like to party it too much. Well, so do I, of course, but my work … you know, that’s big with me, too.

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