He leaves
the cinema
in tears, telling his friend
"If it was art, I would not be
crying."

All men
have their own ghosts;
the trick's to set them free
and make it an amicable
parting.

That's quite
easy, my son;
live an unspeakably
horrible existence, and then
die young.

You’d have to be crazy to leave a gig like this;
The hours, the holidays, the civil-service tenure,
And it was crazy that got me here in the first place.

Consarn
it, Booth--the stench
of your acting rises
to this box like the rot of death
itself!

You see,
fate will always
bitchslap those who can't bring
themselves to just leave well enough
alone.

If you believe all the twaddle you’ve read,
Then I suppose you deserve all you get
(Spend your life here, and you’re better off dead.)

Bovine fools can be easily misled;

Tanks roll
unfettered as
Radio Free Europe
plays "On Broadway", ode to pawnshops,
pimps, whores.

Look, lads, we're all addicted to faith.
Even those dour souls who have erected their shrines
To logic and the tangible are not immune to a flutter on a pony

I mean no disrespect; Larry Tate is one hell of a guy,
But if you can’t wrangle up a showgirl or hooker
On short notice, you have no business calling yourself an ad man.

I hear
the sighs, and know
what you think: “born too soon.”
Just like you to blame it all on
the stork.

He had been this month's bright, shining hope,
With bits of promising prose poking out of literary reviews
And higher-brow magazines here and there

When you appear—as we all shall, no doubt—before the oldest judge
In the world, take care to notice his appearance; you’ll see that his robe

It is written in the Bible that once the bedrock
Of faith is destroyed, the righteous are cast adrift
As ones wandering, sunburned and thirsty
Endlessly in the great desert. Oh, yes, I quoted

We love
freedom, of course--
but Budapest is not
our problem; besides, what's in it
for us?