ANOTHER STORY ABOUT GROUCHO MARX

Harpo                              and	
			                                                   Chico and         Zeppo                                 plotted

how Groucho would die –
•	fire
•	knives
•	piano & harp
•	banjo wire,
like this they'd make sure:

On the street – his teeth broke and scattered on asphalt. his mouth bloody & wrong shaped like his body – his lips with pins in them & the cigar torn up with the tatters of it up his nostrils – in his afterlife he will smell all his ambitions and they will see them greasepainted black over his open eyes.

And Groucho – walking
 – was TIRED,

so TIRED
from his day

smashing cars
into other cars.    
He
was absolutely    
worn	out	by it.

He was not
HIMSELF
he realized

but he wasn't worried about anyone.

It was a slow of his soul stuck in him and he missed the movies. Without them he was sick and bent.

He was lying prone. His teeth
were falling into his mouth.
If it was a dream, his stomach 
was against the road.
He got grease all over his naked torso,
kissing tar. He quoted someone smart.
He didn't feel any better.
If he just had the energy for it,
he'd be so much more destructive.
He thought of his son,
his tv show.
He was already obliterated,
and the murder today would be without bang.
If he had sense he'd smell scum,
smile at them –  his brother's 
whom he knew hated him,
		
he loved.

Then his brothers came up the street and
hill; he

smiled it had been so long.
Had been so long, so long since

they'd been around – warm bodies
he remembered.