Trollius And Trellises

Of course, I may die in the next ten minutes 

and I’m ready for that 

but what I’m really worried about is 

that my editor-publisher might retire 

even though he is ten years younger than I. 

it was just 25 years ago (I was at that ripe 

old age of 45) 

when we began our unholy alliance to 

test the literary waters, 

neither of us being much 

known. 

I think we had some luck and still have some 

of same 

yet 

the odds are pretty fair 

that he will opt for warm and pleasant 

afternoons 

in the garden 

long before I. 

Writing is its own intoxication 

while publishing and editing, 

attempting to collect bills 

carries its own 

attrition 

which also includes dealing with the 

petty bitchings and demands 

of many 

so-called genius darlings who are 

not. 

I won’t blame him for getting out 

and hope he sends me photos of his 

Rose Lane, his 

Gardenia Avenue. 

Will I have to seek other 

promulgators? 

that fellow in the Russian 

fur hat? 

or that beast in the East 

with all that hair 

in his ears, with those wet and 

greasy lips? 

Or will my editor-publisher 

upon exiting for that world of Trollius and 

trellis 

hand over the 

machinery 

of his former trade to a 

cousin, a 

daughter or 

some Poundian from Big 

Sur? 

Or will he just pass the legacy on 

to the 

Shipping Clerk 

who will rise like 

Lazarus, 

fingering new-found 

importance? 

One can imagine terrible 

things: 

“Mr. Chinaski, all your work 

must now be submitted in 

Rondo form 

and 

typed 

triple-spaced on rice 

paper.” 

Power corrupts, 

life aborts 

and all you 

have left 

is a 

bunch of 

warts. 

“No, no, Mr. Chinaski: 

Rondo form!” 

“Hey, man,” I’ll ask, 

“haven’t you heard of 

the thirties?” 

"The thirties? what’s 

that?” 

My present editor-publisher 

and I 

at times 

did discuss the thirties, 

the Depression 

and 

some of the little tricks it 

taught us— 

like how to endure on almost 

nothing 

and move forward 

anyhow. 

Well, John, if it happens enjoy your 

divertissement to 

plant husbandry, 

cultivate and aerate 

between 

bushes, water only in the 

early morning, spread 

shredding to discourage 

weed growth 

and 

as I do in my writing: 

use plenty of 

manure. 

And thank you 

for locating me there at 

5124 DeLongpre Avenue 

somewhere between 

alcoholism and 

madness. 

Together we 

laid down the gauntlet 

and there are takers 

even at this late date 

still to be 

found 

as the fire sings 

through the 

trees.