Uncle George made a million bucks selling real estate,
back when a million bucks meant something, girls in Vegas and Wayne Newton winking
from under his falsetto and pencil mustache. If Uncle can do it, I can can.

Uncle says the secret of success is rising whenever you wake and getting right to work.
You'll have time to sleep later, he says, when you're dead. I can do that, can rise
and write as early as I want with my wife sleeping like a hibernating minx. No problem.

Uncle bought a lake out of boredom. An Arizona lake. Spent millions on a wave
machine. Surfing in a god damn desert, on a perfect pipeline curl. I can do that.
Machinery of the gods is my specialty, surfing on every swelling phrase.

Uncle lost his shorts. At the bottom of the lake. It had something to do with words.
Glabrous words with engineers, arguing physics and asymptotes. I can do that,
write naked as God's Adam before the naming of animals, and just after —

Uncle found new threads for another deal in the "real" Caribbean. Bought an island
from Howard Hughes. Howard didn't want it. It offended his sensibility: it had
nothing on it. I can do that, every poem like a desert isle, until I build the bridge

between stanzas, scatter a few huts, and people it with wry creations. Or cry
like Uncle George, cry uncle, and throw in the towel. In his case, he threw it on the beach
and lay for a long time, admiring the sun. That's how I'd like to end.