there
first?
at any rate
it was
shortly after
that
that
almost all the
poets
in the
Village
and most poets
living
elsewhere
stopped
wearing
scarves and
berets
and reluctantly
went off to
war.
Paris in the spring
if death was staring you in the face,
he was asked, what would you say to your readers?
nothing, he told the interviewer, would you please
order another bottle of wine?
he was an old, tired writer from Los Angeles, hungover,
and his French publisher had pushed one more
interview on him.
the free dinners and drinks usually
were great
but now he was fed up.
the many recent interviews had become
frustrating and boring.
he figured either his books would sell on their own
or fail the same way.
he hadn’t written them for money anyhow but to keep
himself out of the madhouse.
he tried to tell the interviewers this but they just went on with
their usual
banal questions:
have you met Norman Mailer?
what do you think of Camus, Sartre, Céline?
do your books sell better here than in America?
did you really work in a slaughterhouse?
do you think Hemingway was homosexual?
do you take drugs?
do you drink when you write?
are you a misanthrope?
who is your favorite writer?
the interviewer ordered another bottle of wine.
it was 11:15 p.m. on the patio of a hotel.
there were little white tables and chairs scattered about.
theirs was the only one occupied.
there was the interviewer, a photographer,
the writer and his wife.
have you had sex with children? the interviewer
asked.
no, answered the writer.
in one of your stories a man has sex with a
child and you describe it very
graphically.
well? asked the writer.
it was as if you enjoyed it, the interviewer said.
I sometimes enjoy writing, the writer said.
you seemed to have experienced what you were describing,
said the interviewer.
I only photograph life, said the writer. I might write
about a murderer but this doesn’t mean that I am
one or would enjoy being one.
ah, here’s the wine, said the interviewer.
the waiter took out the cork, poured a bit for
him.
the interviewer took a taste, nodded to the
waiter
and the waiter poured all
around.
the wine goes fast when there’s four of us, said the
writer.
do you drink because you are afraid of life?
the interviewer asked.
disgusted with life is more like it, said the writer, and with
you.
we were up very early, said the writer’s wife.
he’s given at least a dozen interviews over the past
3 days and he’s tired.
I am from one of the city’s most important newspapers,
said the interviewer.
fuck you , said the writer.
what? said the interviewer. you can’t talk to me
like that!
I am, said the writer.
all you American writers think you’re God, said the
interviewer.
God is dead, said the writer, remember?
this interview is over! said the interviewer.
the photographer quickly drank his wine,
then he and the interviewer stood up
and walked out.
you better get yourself together, said the wife
to the writer, you’re on television tomorrow
night.
I’ll tell them to kiss my ass, said the writer.
you can’t do that, said his wife.
baby, said the writer, lifting his
wineglass, watch me!
you’re just a drunk who writes, said his wife.
that’s better than a drunk who just drinks,
said the writer.
his wife sighed.
well, do you want to go back to the room or to another
café?
to another café, said the writer.
they rose and walked slowly out of the
restaurant, he looking through his pocket for
cigarettes, she looking back over her shoulder
as if something was following
them.
alone in this chair
hell, hell, in hell,
trapped like a fish to bake
here and burn.
hell, hell, inside my brain
inside my gut,
hell hanging
twisting
screaming
churning
then crouching still
both inside
and outside of
me.
hell,
hell in the trees,
on the ground,
crawling on the rug.
hell,
bouncing off
the
walls and
ceiling
first?
at any rate
it was
shortly after
that
that
almost all the
poets
in the
Village
and most poets
living
elsewhere
stopped
wearing
scarves and
berets
and reluctantly
went off to
war.
Paris in the spring
if death was staring you in the face,
he was asked, what would you say to your readers?
nothing, he told the interviewer, would you please
order another bottle of wine?
he was an old, tired writer from Los Angeles, hungover,
and his French publisher had pushed one more
interview on him.
the free dinners and drinks usually
were great
but now he was fed up.
the many recent interviews had become
frustrating and boring.
he figured either his books would sell on their own
or fail the same way.
he hadn’t written them for money anyhow but to keep
himself out of the madhouse.
he tried to tell the interviewers this but they just went on with
their usual
banal questions:
have you met Norman Mailer?
what do you think of Camus, Sartre, Céline?
do your books sell better here than in America?
did you really work in a slaughterhouse?
do you think Hemingway was homosexual?
do you take drugs?
do you drink when you write?
are you a misanthrope?
who is your favorite writer?
the interviewer ordered another bottle of wine.
it was 11:15 p.m. on the patio of a hotel.
there were little white tables and chairs scattered about.
theirs was the only one occupied.
there was the interviewer, a photographer,
the writer and his wife.
have you had sex with children? the interviewer
asked.
no, answered the writer.
in one of your stories a man has sex with a
child and you describe it very
graphically.
well? asked the writer.
it was as if you enjoyed it, the interviewer said.
I sometimes enjoy writing, the writer said.
you seemed to have experienced what you were describing,
said the interviewer.
I only photograph life, said the writer. I might write
about a murderer but this doesn’t mean that I am
one or would enjoy being one.
ah, here’s the wine, said the interviewer.
the waiter took out the cork, poured a bit for
him.
the interviewer took a taste, nodded to the
waiter
and the waiter poured all
around.
the wine goes fast when there’s four of us, said the
writer.
do you drink because you are afraid of life?
the interviewer asked.
disgusted with life is more like it, said the writer, and with
you.
we were up very early, said the writer’s wife.
he’s given at least a dozen interviews over the past
3 days and he’s tired.
I am from one of the city’s most important newspapers,
said the interviewer.
fuck you , said the writer.
what? said the interviewer. you can’t talk to me
like that!
I am, said the writer.
all you American writers think you’re God, said the
interviewer.
God is dead, said the writer, remember?
this interview is over! said the interviewer.
the photographer quickly drank his wine,
then he and the interviewer stood up
and walked out.
you better get yourself together, said the wife
to the writer, you’re on television tomorrow
night.
I’ll tell them to kiss my ass, said the writer.
you can’t do that, said his wife.
baby, said the writer, lifting his
wineglass, watch me!
you’re just a drunk who writes, said his wife.
that’s better than a drunk who just drinks,
said the writer.
his wife sighed.
well, do you want to go back to the room or to another
café?
to another café, said the writer.
they rose and walked slowly out of the
restaurant, he looking through his pocket for
cigarettes, she looking back over her shoulder
as if something was following
them.
alone in this chair
hell, hell, in hell,
trapped like a fish to bake
here and burn.
hell, hell, inside my brain
inside my gut,
hell hanging
twisting
screaming
churning
then crouching still
both inside
and outside of
me.
hell,
hell in the trees,
on the ground,
crawling on the rug.
hell,
bouncing off
the
walls and
ceiling
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