godawful stuff
about the
soul
and I’d go to the
window
and look out and
say
“nice view but let’s
work out.”
“work out?”
she’d ask. “what
do you mean?”
“I mean
I’ll suck your tits
and stuff.”
“I want you to hear
this new
song.”
she’d start right
in.
she had an awful
voice but
nice long
hair.
I’d get playful
and hammer on the
piano
just so I wouldn’t
have to listen
to
her.
I was in a bad
way: in between
real women
and just
doing time
with
her.
one night I
asked her,
“listen, how do you
make it?”
“make it?”
“I mean
how do you pay the
rent, all
that?”
“oh, I’m a marriage
counselor.”
“really?”
“yes.”
“you been married?”
“3 times.”
I finally stopped going
to her
place
but somehow
she found out where
I lived
and then came
to see
me.
she said we couldn’t have
sex
because she was going to
be married again
and didn’t want to be
untrue
to him.
she described
her boyfriend
in detail
to me
then took out her
guitar
and started
singing.
later that night
I sodomized her
and told her
not to
come
around any
more.
I got lucky:
she
didn’t.
soon after that
I met a plump
Jewish girl
who promised
she’d
save me from
myself.
I thought
that would be
a very good
idea.
sex sister
there were 4 of them between the ages of 30 and 45 and
all they talked about was men and sex, I mean,
it was all-consuming, to them there wasn’t anything
else.
I was living with the youngest sister and she had me
performing sexual acts I had never even heard of
before.
“now, let’s try this.”
“all right.”
at first it was lively, adventurous, even
humorous
but
as the months passed and the nights added up I
began to resent it, like—oh, here we go with SEX
again!
(she also liked to do it in strange places like public
parks or in automobiles while I was driving.)
I began to feel that all the sisters were crazy; in fact,
one of them had been in a madhouse (the one I was with).
the sisters had boisterous, screeching laughs, really
rather ugly laughs
and I began drinking more so I could tolerate
them and their laughter.
the drinking made the sister I was with quite angry
because sometimes I would just go to sleep
instead of performing.
I finally told my lady that I couldn’t take it anymore
and that it was over and she seemed to accept that at first
but finally it was not to be so:
she began to phone me continually, mostly at night,
around 3 or 4 a.m.: “YOU’VE GOT SOMEBODY THERE,
HAVEN’T YOU?”
she followed me everywhere. once I took some clothes in
to the cleaners and when I came out my car was nearly
destroyed—ripped upholstery, shattered windows, torn
dashboard, all within 3 or 4 minutes.
it looked as if a tiger had been in the car.
another time I was making love to another lady when my
bedroom window was
smashed open and there was the sister’s face, twisted, spitting
at me, “YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” then she was
gone.
the lady in bed was terrified, trembling. “what was
that?”
“nothing, baby, nothing.”
the sex sister also tried to murder me a couple of times in a couple
of different ways and just missed both
times.
let me tell you that the police weren’t much
help, they picked her up but she somehow convinced
them that I was at fault.
“there’s nothing wrong with that lady,” they told me,
both times.
two squads of officers.
maybe she had sex with the whole gang of
them?
fortunately, as the months went on she gradually abandoned her
terrorist attacks until finally it was just a weepy
phone call or two and then a letter or two, then
silence.
she probably found somebody who could perform all the tricks that
she had taught me and could probably perform them
better. I hope
so.
and I just hope he likes sex
62 times a
month.
to the ladies no longer here
it’s just as well
you should see me now
driving to the racetrack
a tiny German flag decorating the rear
window.
I dislike the heavy traffic on the
boulevard and
I drive through the back streets of the black
ghetto.
the years have gone by
quickly.
Death sits in the seat next to
me.
we make a lovely
couple.
a man finds consolation while driving
and waiting.
one consolation is
how lucky I am
that I never settled down permanently
with any one of the
ladies.
driving along, that thought comes back to
me and falls at my feet.
Death picks it up
looks at me
shudders
and quickly fastens his
seat belt.
the nude dancer
she’s got a 6- month-old baby
and a 9- year-old
son,
but
she said
it sure beats the factories.
why do those guys just sit there and
stare at that thing
when a woman’s dancing? I
asked.
they memorize it, she said, then they
go home and flog off. I danced last
night and nobody watched me.
they w
ere all watching some movie
where this woman was fingering
herself, and
after I finished my dance
I stood there and told them,
you guys are going to go crazy watching that
anymore.
you know, some of those guys freaked
out? about 7 of them got up and
left.
no shit, I said.
no shit, she said. I’ve worked 3 different places
since I’ve seen you
last. but it beats the factories and
it beats the
streets.
at least you can catch a drink
once in a while.
yes, that’s right,
I told her,
that’s right.
Ma Barker loves me
lying in the sack in the dark
sick from days of drinking.
head hurting
tongue thick.
watching tv
phone off the hook.
tired of trying to relate to the
female,
I watch tv.
the walls stacked up around me
like shields.
I watch these guys blasting holes
in people
with their submachineguns.
they need money
they have trouble with their molls
things keep
screwing up.
I get up to piss during a tire
commercial.
when I get back the main guy is
lying out in a field with his
moll.
there’s a stream below them.
it’s peaceful but he has a cigar
stuck into his mouth and a .357 magnum
resting in his shoulder holster.
the moll leans over him
she has blonde wispy hair which flicks
in the wind.
she says, “Johnny, why don’t you give
it up?”
“give what up?” he asks.
“you know, Johnny,” she says, “killing
people and all that …”
“now, baby,” he says, “I’m just trying
to get by.”
“you could give all that up, Johnny, we
could settle down in a nice little place
with a picket fence and have babies …”
“ah, now, baby, that life ain’t for
me.”
“well, Johnny,” she smiles, “it’s either
give it up or lose me …”
he sits up
pushes her away:
“no, baby! you don’t mean that?”
“yes,” she says, “I do , Johnny!”
“I’m not going to live without you,
baby,” he says
takes out the .357
jams it between her legs and
pulls the trigger.
I get up
go to the refrigerator and
get a beer.
when I come back
there’s a shaving cream commercial
on.
I drain the beer
toss it in the basket
put the phone back on the hook
dial a number.
she answers and I say, “listen,
baby, I can’t have you around
anymore, you
get in the way.
sorry.”
I hang up
take the phone back
off the hook.
time for another beer.
I like gangster movies
best.
here we go again
it’s stupid, I know, but I have an
ability to feel happy for little or no reason,
it’s not a great elation, it’s
more like a steady
warmth—
something like a warm heater on a cold
night.
I have no religion, and not even a
decent philosophy
and I’m not
stupid: I know that death will finally
arrive
but don’t consider even this to be
a negative
factor.
which is to say that in spite of
most of the
time.
I appear to handle setbacks, bad
luck, minor tragedies, without
difficulty, my mood remains
unchanged.
much experience, perhaps, has taught
me
how to remain unmoved.
yet there is one situation
I can’t endure:
a bitter, depressed, angry
woman
can still murder any
good feelings
that I might have—and
just like that I despair and
fall into a black
pit.
this occurs with some
regularity and unfortunately
in the wink of an
eye I am sullen and
depressed.
and that’s stupid,
I should be able to ignore
female
disorders
even as the dark shit
(that despite the dark shit)
floods my
brain.
do you believe that a man can be taught to write?
there was my cheap hotel; I was up on the 4th floor; I’d
bring a lady in from the bar 2 or 3 times a week and we’d burst into that
lobby like we wanted to wreck something, and the desk clerk, a really
nice fellow, was terrified of me, I was big of chest and gut and when
the writing was going badly, which it often was, upon
entering with my lady, I’d take it out on the desk clerk: “hey,
buddy, I think I’ll take one of your legs, twist it up the middle
of your back and wind you like a clock!”
I had him so scared he only called the cops once or twice and I
had fun with the cops—barricading the door and listening to the dumb
useless double-talk that cops liked to use; I always wore them
down and they never got in.
up there I stripped to my undershirt and shorts, I was nuts,
had very muscular legs, strutted up and down the room saying, “look at
my legs, baby! you ever seen legs like that?”
I always pretended to be the toughest guy in town but
when it actually came to fighting I wasn’t all that good: I
could take a hell of a punch and didn’t have much fear but my own left
hook and right cross were missing, and worse, I couldn’t seem to
get the hatred going, it all seemed a joke to me, even when some guy was
crushing my head against the edge of some urinal.
but let’s forget all that! up on that 4th floor, I was best, the red neon
sign near the downtown library flashing CHRIST SAVES, me
strutting about and proclaiming, “nobody knows I’m a genius but
me!”
and all the time I was strutting I would glance over at my lady of
the night, looking at those legs, those high heels, thinking, I’m going
to rip the love out of those high-heeled shoes and those ankles and those
thighs and that dumb pitiful face, I’m going to make her come alive!
and poor Hemingway, I thought, never met dolls like I’ve met
dolls!
which was true.
he would have walked away.
hail and farewell
as gentle as a butterfly
fluttering in the
murdered light
you came through
here
like fire singing
and when it was over
the walls came down
the flags went up
and love was finished.
you left behind a pair of shoes
an old purse
and some birthday and
Xmas cards
from me all
held together
by a green rubber
band.
all well and good enough,
I suppose,
because
when your lover is gone,
thank the gods,
the silence is
final.
weep
weep for the indifference of flying fish
weep for the absence of long-haired blondes
weep for the sadness of yourself
weep for Bach
weep for the extinct animals
weep for grandfather’s clock
weep for weeping
because no one cares
the doors open in and out
the lights go on and off
teeth are pulled
I forgive the indifference of flying fish
I forgive the butterfly and the moth