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  now you will have a

  chance to re-evaluate

  that opinion

  and to choose another

  victim.

  first family

  it’s unholy.

  I appear to be

  lost. I walk from room to room and

  there aren’t many (2 or 3)

  and she is in the dark room

  snoring, I can’t see her but her

  mouth is open and her hair is gray

  poor thing

  and she doesn’t mean me harm

  least of all

  does she mean me

  harm,

  and in the other room are

  pink lips pink ears

  on a head like a cabbage

  and a child’s blocks on the floor like

  leprosy

  and she also doesn’t mean me any harm at

  all,

  but I cannot sleep and I sit in the kitchen

  with a big black fly

  that goes around and around and around

  like a piece of snot grown a

  heart,

  and I am puzzled and not given to

  cruelty (I’d like to think)

  and I sit with the fly

  under this yellow light

  and we smoke a cigar and drink beer

  and share the calendar with a frightened cat:

  “ katzen-unsere hausfrende: 1965.”

  I am a poor father because I want to stay alive as a

  man but perhaps I never was a

  man.

  I suck on the cigar and suddenly the fly is gone

  and there are just

  the 3 of us

  here.

  a real thing, a good woman

  I put the book down and ask:

  why are they always writing about

  the bulls, the bullfighters?

  those who have never seen

  them?

  and as I break the web of the

  spider reaching for my wine,

  the hum of bombers

  breaking the solace, I decide

  I must write an impatient letter to my

  priest about some 3rd St.

  whore

  who keeps calling me up at 3 in

  the morning.

  ass full of

  splinters,

  thinking of pocketbook poets

  and the priest,

  I go over to the typewriter

  next to the window

  to see to my letter

  and look look

  the sky’s black as ink

  and my wife says Brock, for

  Christ’s sake,

  the typewriter all night,

  how can I sleep? and I crawl quickly

  into bed and

  kiss her hair and say

  sorry sorry sorry

  sometimes I get excited

  I don’t know why …

  a friend of mine has

  written a book about

  Manolete …

  who’s that? nobody, kid,

  somebody dead

  like Chopin or our old mailman

  or a dog,

  go to sleep, go to sleep,

  and I kiss her and rub her

  head,

  a good woman,

  and soon she sleeps as I wait

  for morning.

  a child’s bedtime story

  unsaid, said the snail.

  untold, said the tortoise.

  doesn’t matter, said the tiger.

  obey me, said the father.

  be loyal, said the country.

  watch me climb, said the vine.

  doesn’t matter, said the tiger.

  untold, said the tortoise,

  unsaid, said the snail.

  I’ll run, said the mouse.

  I’ll hide, said the cat.

  I’ll fly, said the sparrow.

  I’ll swim, said the whale.

  obey and be loyal, said the

  father and

  everybody shut up! roared the

  Queen.

  the night came and all

  the lights went out

  as the cities

  burned.

  now, go to

  sleep.

  working out in Hades

  holy Christ, I was on fire then and

  I’d tell that whore I lived with on Beacon Street

  starving and drinking

  I’d tell her that I had something great and mysterious

  going for me,

  in fact, when I got really drunk I’d pace the floor in my

  dirty torn shorts and ripped undershirt and

  say more in desperation than belief: “I’m a fucking

  genius and nobody knows it but

  me!”

  I thought this was rather humorous but she’d say, “honey, you’re

  full of shit, pour us another drink!”

  she was crazy too and now and then an empty bottle would come

  flying toward my head.

  (she

  missed most of the time)

  but

  when she bounced one off my skull I’d ignore it, and pour another

  drink because

  after all, when you’re immortal, nothing

  matters.

  and besides, she had one of the finest pair of legs I’d ever

  seen

  in those high-heeled shoes and with her slender

  ankles and her great knees glimmering in the

  smoky drunken light.

  she helped me through some of the worst times and if she was

  here now we’d both laugh our goddamned asses

  off

  knowing it was all so true and real, and yet that somehow it

  wasn’t real at

  all.

  half-a-goldfish

  we were out on the town

  and we

  went to this nice

  house, lovely couple, etc.

  anyhow, there were 7 or

  8 of us and a jug of really

  cheap wine

  came out and then some

  snacks, and then the man

  got up and came back with

  3 live goldfish and he said,

  “watch this!”

  and he put them in a large

  fish tank

  and the next thing I knew

  there were 6 or 7 heads

  down there glued to the fish tank

  including my girlfriend’s

  and the soft light from the tank

  shone on all the faces

  and in all the eyes,

  and one of the men went,

  “ah!” and one of the girls

  went, “oooh!”

  some terrible thing was eating the

  goldfish.

  then somebody said, “look,

  there’s just half-a-goldfish

  left and he’s still swimming

  around!”

  I said, “why don’t you fucking

  party animals

  get up off that rug

  and help me finish this

  cheap wine?”

  12 or 14 eyes turned and looked at

  me. then one at a time

  the people moved away from

  the fish tank and came back and sat

  down at the table

  again.

  then they began a discussion about

  the merits of

  little literary

  magazines.

  lousy mail

  the time comes when the tank runs

  dry and you have to

  refill

  if you can.

  the vulture swoops low over

  you

  as you open the manila envelope

  from the ivy league university and

  read:

  “we have to pass on this bat
ch of poems

  but we are reading again in the

  Fall.”

  “you were rejected?” asks my

  wife.

  “yes.”

  “well, fuck them,” she says.

  now, there’s loyalty!

  the vulture pauses in mid-flight,

  defecates,

  and flies out of the dining room

  window.

  and I think, it’s nice that they’ll be

  reading again in the

  Fall.

  from the Dept. of English

  we are surprised:

  you used to jab with the left

  then throw a left hook to the body

  followed by an

  overhand right.

  we liked that

  but we like your new way too:

  where you can’t tell where

  the next punch

  is coming

  from.

  to change your style like that when you’re

  not exactly a kid

  anymore,

  I think that takes some

  doing.

  anyhow, enough chitchat.

  we’re accepting your poems

  for our departmental Literary Journal

  and, by the way,

  you are one of the poets selected for

  class discussion

  in our Contemporary Poetry Series.

  no shit, baby?

  well, suck my

  titties.

  and poems have too

  don’t worry, Dostoevsky,

  the fish and the hills and the harbor

  and the girls and the horses and the

  alleys and the nights and the dogs

  and the knives and the poisons and

  the wines and the midgets and the

  gamblers and the lights and the guns

  and the lies and the sacrifices

  and the flies and the frogs and the

  flags and the doors and the windows

  and the stairways and the cigarettes

  and the hotels and myself have been

  around a long time.

  just like you.

  poets to the rescue

  the night the poets dropped by to say

  hello

  was at the time

  that terrible time when

  the ladies on the telephone

  were screaming their fury

  at me.

  the night the poets came by to say

  hello

  I offered them cigarettes

  as they talked about the

  poet

  who traveled all the way to Paris

  in order to be able

  to select the contents

  of his next book

  and we smiled at that

  the poets and I

  as we remembered starvation

  dark mornings

  deadly noons

  evenings of elephantine

  misery.

  the night the poets came by to say

  hello

  we also mused about whatever happened to

  Barney Google with the googly

  eyes: he probably died for the love of

  a strumpet as many good men

  have

  or went to London and walked in the

  fog

  waiting for

  what?

  the night the poets came by to say

  hello

  the walls were stained mellow with

  grief

  and beakers of curdled wine

  dusty with dead spiders

  sat about like memories best

  forgotten.

  the poets insisted then that it was best

  not to think too much about things

  or remember too much

  but best just to sit around

  in the evenings

  and smoke our cigarettes and

  drink our

  beer

  and talk quietly about

  simple

  things.

  the poets

  left soon after that

  but the phone kept ringing

  and I stood there frozen

  as the ladies screamed their fury

  at me.

  what they wanted I didn’t have

  and what I had

  they didn’t want.

  red hot mail

  I continue to receive many letters

  from young ladies.

  evidently they have read some of

  my books

  but

  they hardly ever

  mention this.

  many of their letters are

  on pink or red

  stationery

  and they inform me that

  they want to

  kiss my lips and

  they want to

  come and stay with me

  and

  they say they will do anything

  and everything

  for and to me for

  as long as

  I can keep up with

  them.

  also, the younger ones are quick

  to mention their

  age: 21, 22, 23.

  these letters are

  fascinating, of

  course,

  but I always trash

  them

  for I know that all things

  have their price

  especially when they

  are advertised as being

  free.

  besides,

  what does it all mean?

  bugs fuck, birds

  fuck, horses

  fuck, maybe some day they’ll

  find that

  even wind, water and

  rocks

  fuck.

  and

  where were all these eager

  girls

  when I was starving,

  broke, young and

  alone?

  they were

  not born yet, of

  course.

  I can’t blame them now

  for

  that.

  but I do blame the girls

  of my youth

  for ignoring me and

  for bedding down with all the

  other

  milkfish souls.

  those other lads, I suppose,

  were grateful then to

  sink their spike into

  any willing thing that

  moved.

  I only wish now some lass had

  chanced upon me then

  when I so needed her hair blowing in my

  face

  and her eyes smiling into mine,

  when I so needed

  that wild music

  and that wild female willingness

  to be

  undone.

  but they left me to sit alone

  in tiny rented rooms

  with only the company

  of elderly landladies

  and the comings and goings

  of unsympathetic

  roaches, they

  left me terribly alone with

  suicide mornings and

  park bench

  nights.

  and now that

  they are old

  and

  I am old

  I don’t want to know

  them

  now

  or even to know

  their

  daughters

  even though

  the gods

  in their infinite wisdom

  still refuse to

  let me

  forget and

  rest.

  some personal thoughts

  they’re right: maybe it’s been too easy just writing about myself and

  horses and drinking, but then I’m not
trying to prove anything. taking

  long walks lately has been pleasant and although my desire for the female

  remains, I find that I needn’t always be on the lookout for new conquests.

  riding the same mare need not be boring. let the wild young fillies be a

  problem for other men. I am often satisfied just being alone. I now find

  people more amusing than disgusting (am I weakening?) and although

  I still have nights and days of depression the typewriter does not fail me.

  readers expect continual growth from their poets but at this time just

  holding (the fort, haha) seems miraculous. long walks, yes. and the ability

  not to care—at times—as our society erupts and struggles does not mean

  that I am the victim of artistic loss. solitary evenings behind drawn blinds,

  being neither rich nor poor, can be satisfying. will madness arrive on

  schedule? I don’t know and I don’t seek an answer—just a small quiet

  space between not knowing, not wanting to know and finally finding out.

  he’s a dog

  who? Chinaski? he hates fags and women.

  he’s a drunk. he beats his wife. he’s a Nazi.

  he only writes about sex and drinking. who

  cares about that?

  and he’s a nasty drunk.

  I don’t understand what people see in his

  writing.

  I am the real genius and now

  Chinaski has asked his publishers not to

  publish me!

  I’ve known some of the greatest writers

  of our time!

  Chinaski has met nobody.

  I got him his start!

  I got him included in that prestigious

  anthology!

  how does he repay me?

  he writes unflattering things about

  me.

  and he claims he’s lived with all

  those beautiful women.

  have you ever seen his face?

  who would bed down a man

  like that?

  and he’s had no education, no formal

  training.

  he has no idea what a stanza

  is.

  or for that matter—a line

  break.

  he just begins at the top

  of the page and runs on to the