You’ve got to fuck a great many women-
beautiful women-
and write a few decent love poems.
And don’t worry about age
and/or freshly-arrived talents.

Just drink more beer,
more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a
week
and win
if possible.

Learning to win is hard -
any slob can be a good loser.

And don’t forget your Brahms
and your Bach and your
beer.

Don’t overexercise.
Sleep until noon.

Avoid paying credit cards,
or paying for anything on
time.

Remember that there isn’t a piece of ass
in this world over $50
(in 1977.)

And if you have the ability to love,
love yourself first,
but always be aware of the possibility of
total defeat
whether the reason for that defeat
seems right or wrong-
an early taste of death is not necessarily
a bad thing.

Stay out of churches and bars and museums,
and like the spider be
patient-
time is everybody’s cross,
plus
exile
defeat
treachery

all that dross.

Stay with the beer.
Beer is continuous blood.
A continuous lover.

Get a large typewriter
and as the footsteps go up and down
outside your window
hit that thing
hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs
who fought so well:
Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.

If you think they didn’t go crazy
in tiny rooms
just like you’re doing now
without women
without food
without hope

then you’re not ready.

Drink more beer.
there’s time.
And if there’s not,
that’s all right
too.