she’d
say.
“it’s good to hear your voice too,” I’d
say.
what the hell, you
know.
she finally came down. I think it had
something to do with
The Chapparal Poets Society of California.
they had to elect officers. she phoned me
from their hotel.
“I’m here,” she said, “we’re going to elect
officers.”
“o.k., fine,” I said, “get some good ones.”
I hung up.
the phone rang again.
“hey, don’t you want to see me?”
“sure,” I said, “what’s the address?”
after she said goodbye I jacked-off
changed my stockings
drank a half bottle of wine and
drove on out.
they were all drunk and trying to
fuck each other.
I drove her back to my place.
she had on pink panties with
ribbons.
we drank some beer and
smoked and talked about
Ezra Pound, then we
slept.
it’s no longer clear to
me whether I drove her to
the airport or
not.
she still writes letters
and I answer each one
viciously
hoping to make her
stop.
someday she may luck into
fame like Erica
Jong. (her face is not as good
but her body is better)
and I’ll think,
my God, what have I done?
I blew it.
or rather: I didn’t blow
it.
meanwhile I have her box number
and I’d better inform her
that my second novel will be out
in September.
that ought to keep her nipples hard
while I consider the possibility of
Francine du Plessix Gray.
I have shit stains in my underwear too
I hear them outside:
“does he always type this
late?”
“no, it’s very unusual.”
“he shouldn’t type this
late.”
“he hardly ever does.”
“does he drink?”
“I think he does.”
“he went to the mailbox in
his underwear yesterday.”
“I saw him too.”
“he doesn’t have any friends.”
“he’s old.”
“he shouldn’t type this late.”
they go inside and it begins
to rain as
3 gun shots sound half a block
away and
one of the skyscrapers in
downtown L.A. begins
burning
25 foot flames licking toward
doom.
Hawley’s leaving town
this guy
he’s got a crazy eye
and he’s brown
a dark brown from the sun
the Hollywood and Western sun
the racetrack sun
he sees me and he says,
“hey, Hawley’s leaving town
for a week. he messes up
my handicapping. now
I’ve got a chance.”
he’s grinning, he means it:
with Hawley out of town
he’s going to move toward
that castle in the Hollywood Hills;
dancing girls
six German Shepherds
a drawbridge,
ten year old
wine.
Sam the Whorehouse Man
walks up and I tell Sam that
I am clearing $150 a day
at the track.
“I work right off the
toteboard,” I tell him.
“I need a girl,” he tells me,
“who can belt-buckle a guy
without coming out with all
this Christian moral bullshit
afterwards.”
“Hawley’s leaving town,”
I tell Sam.
“where’s the Shoe?”
he asks.
“back east,” says an old man
who’s standing there.
he has a white plastic shield
over his left eye
with little holes
punched into it.
“that leaves it all to Pinky,”
says dark brown.
we all stand looking at each
other.
then
a silent signal given
we turn away
and start walking,
each
in a different direction:
north south east west.
we know something.
an unkind poem
they go on writing
pumping out poems—
young boys and college professors
wives who drink wine all afternoon
while their husbands work,
they go on writing
the same names in the same magazines
everybody writing a little worse each year,
getting out a poetry collection
and pumping out more poems
it’s like a contest
it is a contest
but the prize is invisible.
they won’t write short stories or articles
or novels
they just go on
pumping out poems
each sounding more and more like the others
and less and less like themselves,
and some of the young boys weary and quit
but the professors never quit
and the wives who drink wine in the
say.
“it’s good to hear your voice too,” I’d
say.
what the hell, you
know.
she finally came down. I think it had
something to do with
The Chapparal Poets Society of California.
they had to elect officers. she phoned me
from their hotel.
“I’m here,” she said, “we’re going to elect
officers.”
“o.k., fine,” I said, “get some good ones.”
I hung up.
the phone rang again.
“hey, don’t you want to see me?”
“sure,” I said, “what’s the address?”
after she said goodbye I jacked-off
changed my stockings
drank a half bottle of wine and
drove on out.
they were all drunk and trying to
fuck each other.
I drove her back to my place.
she had on pink panties with
ribbons.
we drank some beer and
smoked and talked about
Ezra Pound, then we
slept.
it’s no longer clear to
me whether I drove her to
the airport or
not.
she still writes letters
and I answer each one
viciously
hoping to make her
stop.
someday she may luck into
fame like Erica
Jong. (her face is not as good
but her body is better)
and I’ll think,
my God, what have I done?
I blew it.
or rather: I didn’t blow
it.
meanwhile I have her box number
and I’d better inform her
that my second novel will be out
in September.
that ought to keep her nipples hard
while I consider the possibility of
Francine du Plessix Gray.
I have shit stains in my underwear too
I hear them outside:
“does he always type this
late?”
“no, it’s very unusual.”
“he shouldn’t type this
late.”
“he hardly ever does.”
“does he drink?”
“I think he does.”
“he went to the mailbox in
his underwear yesterday.”
“I saw him too.”
“he doesn’t have any friends.”
“he’s old.”
“he shouldn’t type this late.”
they go inside and it begins
to rain as
3 gun shots sound half a block
away and
one of the skyscrapers in
downtown L.A. begins
burning
25 foot flames licking toward
doom.
Hawley’s leaving town
this guy
he’s got a crazy eye
and he’s brown
a dark brown from the sun
the Hollywood and Western sun
the racetrack sun
he sees me and he says,
“hey, Hawley’s leaving town
for a week. he messes up
my handicapping. now
I’ve got a chance.”
he’s grinning, he means it:
with Hawley out of town
he’s going to move toward
that castle in the Hollywood Hills;
dancing girls
six German Shepherds
a drawbridge,
ten year old
wine.
Sam the Whorehouse Man
walks up and I tell Sam that
I am clearing $150 a day
at the track.
“I work right off the
toteboard,” I tell him.
“I need a girl,” he tells me,
“who can belt-buckle a guy
without coming out with all
this Christian moral bullshit
afterwards.”
“Hawley’s leaving town,”
I tell Sam.
“where’s the Shoe?”
he asks.
“back east,” says an old man
who’s standing there.
he has a white plastic shield
over his left eye
with little holes
punched into it.
“that leaves it all to Pinky,”
says dark brown.
we all stand looking at each
other.
then
a silent signal given
we turn away
and start walking,
each
in a different direction:
north south east west.
we know something.
an unkind poem
they go on writing
pumping out poems—
young boys and college professors
wives who drink wine all afternoon
while their husbands work,
they go on writing
the same names in the same magazines
everybody writing a little worse each year,
getting out a poetry collection
and pumping out more poems
it’s like a contest
it is a contest
but the prize is invisible.
they won’t write short stories or articles
or novels
they just go on
pumping out poems
each sounding more and more like the others
and less and less like themselves,
and some of the young boys weary and quit
but the professors never quit
and the wives who drink wine in the
Similar Books
