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.
Come on In! Page 5