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dream.

  she looked at me and asked,

  did you?

  did you?

  did you?

  on the cuff

  Jane would awaken early

  (and 8:30 a.m. is early

  when you go to bed at

  dawn).

  she would awaken crying and bitching

  for a drink.

  she’d keep at it, bitching and wailing,

  just laying there flat on her back

  and running all that noise

  through my

  hangover.

  until finally, I’d leap out of bed

  landing hard on my feet. “ALL RIGHT,

  ALL RIGHT, GOD DAMN IT, SHUT UP!”

  and I’d climb into the same pants, the

  same shirt, the same dirty socks, I was

  unshaven, unbrushed, young and mad—

  mad, yes, to be shacked with a woman

  ten years older than

  I.

  no job, behind in the rent, the same tired old

  script.

  down three flights of stairs and out

  the back way

  (the apartment house manager hung out

  by the front entrance,

  Mr. Notes-under-the-door, Mr.

  Cop-caller, Mr. Listen-we-have-only-nice-

  tenants-here).

  then down the hill to the liquor

  store around the corner, old Don Kaufman

  who wired all the bottles

  to the counter, even the cheap

  stuff.

  and Don would see me coming, “no, no,

  not today!”

  he meant no booze without

  cash, I was into him pretty deep

  but each time I looked at all

  those bottles

  I got angry because

  he didn’t need all those

  bottles.

  “Don, I want 3 bottles of cheap

  wine.”

  “oh no, Hank.”

  he was an old man, I terrorized

  him and part of me felt bad

  doing it.

  the old fart should have

  blown me away

  with his handgun.

  “Hank, you used to be such a nice

  man, such a gentleman.

  what’s happened?”

  “look, Don, I don’t want a character

  analysis, I want 3 bottles of cheap

  wine.”

  “when are you going to pay?”

  “Don, I’m going to get an income tax

  refund any day

  now.”

  “I can’t let you have anything,

  Hank.”

  then I’d take hold of the counter

  and begin rocking it, ripping at it,

  the bottles rattling, joints and seams

  giving way

  all the while

  cussing my ass

  off.

  “all right, Hank, all

  right!”

  then

  back up the hill, back through

  the rear entrance, up the three

  flights of stairs

  and there she’d be, still in bed.

  she was getting fatter and

  fatter, although we seldom

  ate.

  “3 bottles,” I said, “of

  port.”

  “thank god!”

  “no, thank me. I work the

  miracles around

  here.”

  then

  I’d pour the port into

  two tall water

  glasses

  another day

  begun.

  alone again

  I think of each of

  them

  living somewhere else

  sitting somewhere else

  standing somewhere else

  sleeping somewhere else

  or maybe feeding a

  child

  or

  reading a

  newspaper or screaming

  at their

  new man …

  but thankfully

  my female past

  (for me)

  has concluded

  peacefully.

  yet most others seem to

  believe that a

  new relationship will certainly

  work.

  that the last one

  was simply the

  error of

  choosing a bad

  mate.

  just

  bad taste

  bad luck

  bad fate.

  and then there are some who

  believe that old

  relationships can be

  revived and made new

  again.

  but please

  if you feel that way

  don’t phone

  don’t write

  don’t arrive

  and meanwhile,

  don’t

  feel bruised because this

  poem will last much

  longer than we

  did.

  it deserves to:

  you see

  its strength is

  that it seeks

  no

  mate at

  all.

  fooling Marie (the poem)

  he met her at the racetrack, a strawberry

  blonde with round hips, well-bosomed, long legs,

  turned-up nose, flower mouth, in a pink dress,

  wearing white high-heeled shoes.

  she began asking him questions about various

  horses while looking up at him with her pale blue

  eyes.

  he suggested the bar and they had a drink, then

  watched the next race together.

  he hit fifty-win on a sixty-to-one shot and she

  jumped up and down.

  then she whispered in his ear,

  “you’re the magic man! I want to fuck you!”

  he grinned and said, “I’d like to, but

  Marie … my wife …”

  she laughed, “we’ll go to a motel!”

  so they cashed the ticket, went to the parking lot,

  got into her car. “I’ll drive you back when

  we’re finished,” she smiled.

  they found a motel about a mile

  west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went to

  room 302.

  they had stopped for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s

  on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the

  cellophane. as she undressed he poured two.

  she had a marvelous young body. she sat on the edge of

  the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he

  undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old

  but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day

  ever.

  then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and

  his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over

  and grabbed him between the legs, bent over

  and went down on him.

  he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.

  finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a

  miracle, but soon it ended, and when she

  went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks

  thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never

  know.

  she came out and they sat in bed

  making small talk.

  “I’m going to shower now,” he told her,

  “I’ll be out soon.”

  “o.k., cutie,” she said.

  he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the

  perfume, the woman-smell.

  “hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.

  “I won’t be long, ba
by!” he yelled from the

  shower.

  he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom

  door and stepped out.

  the motel room was empty.

  she was gone.

  on some impulse he ran to the closet, pulled the door

  open: nothing there but coat hangers.

  then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his underwear,

  his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,

  all the money, his shoes, his stockings, everything.

  on another impulse he looked under the bed.

  nothing.

  then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,

  standing on the dresser.

  he walked over and poured a drink.

  as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser

  mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.

  he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself

  in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.

  he had no idea what to do next.

  he carried the whiskey back to the bed, sat down,

  lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the

  boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat

  and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and

  forth.

  the copulation blues

  fuck

  the phone rings once

  stops

  fuck

  I am on top

  we roll off to the side

  fuck

  she throws one leg over

  and plays with her clit

  while I harpoon her

  fuck

  the dog scratches on the door

  won’t stop

  I get up and let him in

  then it’s time to

  suck

  she’s got it in her mouth

  not the dog

  me

  suck suck

  the doorbell rings

  a man selling mops made by the blind

  we buy a mop for eleven dollars with a little gadget

  that squeezes out the water

  fuck

  now it’s up again

  I’m on top again

  the phone rings

  a girlfriend of hers from Stockton

  they talk for ten minutes

  finish

  I am reading the sports section when

  she comes back with a bowl of grapes and

  I hand her the woman’s page

  no fuck.

  the faithful wife

  she was a married woman

  and she wrote sad

  and futile poems

  about her married life.

  her many letters to me

  were the same: sad

  and repetitive and

  futile.

  we exchanged letters for

  some years.

  I was depressed and suicidal

  and had had nothing but

  bad luck

  with women

  so I continued to write

  her

  thinking, well, maybe

  this way

  no ill will come to

  either one of us.

  but

  one night suddenly

  she was in town, she

  phoned me:

  “I’m at a meeting of

  The Chaparral Poets of

  California!”

  “o.k.,” I said, “good

  luck.”

  “I mean,” she asked,

  “don’t you want to

  see me?”

  “oh, yeah …”

  she told me she would be

  waiting at a certain bar

  in Pasadena.

  I had half a glass of

  whiskey, 2 cans of beer

  and

  set out.

  I found the bar, went

  in.

  there she was (she had

  sent photos) the little

  housewife giddy on

  martinis.

  I sat down beside

  her.

  “oh my god,” she said, “it’s you!

  I just can’t believe it!”

  I ordered a couple of drinks from

  the barkeep.

  she kissed me right there, tongue

  and all.

  we had a couple more drinks

  then got into my car

  and with her

  holding my cock

  I drove the freeway

  back to my place

  where I sat her down.

  she began talking about

  poetry

  but I got her back

  into the bedroom

  got her down onto the bed

  and stripped down

  except for the

  panties.

  I had never seen

  such a

  beautiful body.

  I began to slip the

  panties off but she

  said, “no, no, I can TELL

  you’re very POTENT, you’ll make

  me PREGNANT!”

  “well,” I said, “what the hell!”

  I rolled over then and went to

  sleep.

  the next morning

  I drove her back to her

  Chaparral Poets of

  California.

  as the weeks and months

  went on

  her letters kept arriving.

  I answered some, then

  stopped.

  but her letters kept coming.

  there wasn’t much news

  but many photos: photos of

  her children, photos of her,

  there was one photo of her

  sitting alone on a rock

  by the seashore.

  then the letters were fewer and

  fewer and then they stopped.

  add some years

  some other women

  many changes of address

  and one day

  a new letter found

  its way to

  me:

  the children were grown

  and gone.

  her husband had lost his

  part of the business, his

  partners had knifed

  him,

  they were going to have to

  sell the house.

  I answered that

  letter.

  two or three weeks

  passed.

  her next letter said

  that there was a divorce and

  it was final.

  she enclosed a photo.

  I didn’t know who it

  was at first.

  182 pounds. she said

  she’d been living on

  submarine sandwiches and

  refried beans and was

  looking for a job.

  never had a job.

  she could only type

  23 w.p.m.

  she enclosed a small

  chapbook of her poems

  inscribed “Love.”

  I should have fucked her that

  long-ago night.

  I should have been a

  dog.

  it would have been one good

  night for each of us, especially

  for me

  stuck between suicide and

  insanity

  in bed with the beautiful

  housewife.

  I had never seen a body like

  hers before.

  now I don’t even have

  her letters.

  there are nearly a hundred

  of them

  somewhere

 
; and this is

  a sad futile poem

  about it

  all.

  once in a while

  it is only

  once in a while

  that you see

  someone whose

  electricity

  and presence

  matches yours

  at that

  moment

  and then

  usually it’s

  a stranger.

  it was 3 or 4

  years ago

  I was walking on

  Sunset Boulevard

  toward Vermont

  when

  a block away

  I noticed a

  figure moving

  toward me.

  there was something

  in her carriage

  and in her walk

  which

  attracted

  me.

  as we came

  closer

  the intensity

  increased.

  suddenly

  I knew her

  entire history:

  she had lived

  all her life

  with men

  who had never really

  known her.

  as she approached

  I became almost

  dizzy.

  I could hear her

  footsteps as

  she approached.

  I looked into

  her face.

  she was as

  beautiful

  as I had

  imagined she

  would be.