poured
another
drink
c: gave the blade
another
spin.
fan letter
I been readin’ you for a long time now,
I just put Billy Boy to bed,
he got 7 mean ticks from somewhere,
I got 2,
my husband, Benny, he got 3.
some of us love bugs, others hate
them.
Benny writes poems.
he was in the same magazine as you
once.
Benny is the world’s greatest writer
but he got this temper.
he gave a readin’ once and somebody
laughed at one of his serious poems
and Benny took his thing out right
there
and pissed on stage.
he says you write good but that you
couldn’t carry his balls in a paper
bag.
anyhow, I made a BIG POT OF MARMALADE
tonight,
we all just LOVE marmalade here.
Benny lost his job yesterday, he told his
boss to stick it up his ass
but I still got my job down at the
manicure shop.
you know fags come in to get their nails
done?
you aren’t a fag, are you, Mr.
Chinaski?
anyhow, I just felt like writing you.
your books are read and read around
here.
Benny says you’re an old fart, you
write pretty good but that you
couldn’t carry his balls in a
paper sack.
do you like bugs, Mr. Chinaski?
I think the marmalade is cool enough to
eat now.
so goodbye.
Dora
hold on, it’s a belly laugh
it would be good to get
out of here,
just go,
pop off, get away from
memories of this
and all
that,
but staying has its
flavor too:
all those babes who
thought they were
hot numbers
now living in dirty
flats
while looking forward
to the next
episode on
some Soap Opera,
and all those guys,
those who really
thought
they were going to
make it,
grinning in the
Year Book with their
tight-skinned
mugs,
now they are
cops,
clerk typists,
operators of
sandwich stands,
horse grooms,
plops
in the dust.
it’s good to stay
around
to see what
happened to
all the
others-only
when you go to
the bathroom,
avoid the
mirror
and
don’t look
at
what you
flush
away.
finished
the ball comes up to the
plate and I can’t
see
it.
my batting average has dropped to
.231
small things constantly
irritate me
and I can’t sleep
nights.
“you’ll come back,
Harry,” my teammates
tell me.
then they grin and are
secretly
pleased.
I’ve been benched for a
22 year old
kid.
he looks good up there:
power, lots of line
drives.
“ever thought of coaching?”
the manager asks.
“no,” I tell him, “how about
you?”
when I get home my wife
asks, “you get in the lineup
tonight?”
“nope.”
“don’t worry, he’ll put you
in.”
“no, he won’t. I’m gonna
pinch hit the rest of the
season.”
I go into the bathroom and
look into the
mirror.
I’m no 22 year old
kid.
what gets me is that it
seemed to happen
overnight.
one night I was good.
the next night, it
seemed, I was
finished.
I come out of the bathroom
and my wife says,
“don’t worry, all you need
is a little
rest.”
“I been thinking about going
into coaching,” I tell
her.
“sure,” she says, “and after
that I’ll bet you’ll be a
good manager.”
“hell yes,” I say, “anything
on tv?”
zero
dark taste in mouth, my neck is stiff, I am looking for
my sonic vibrator, the music on my radio is diseased,
the winds of death seep through my slippers, and a
terrible letter in the mail today from a pale non-soul
who requests that he may come by to see me
in repayment, he says, for a ride he gave me home
from a drunken Pasadena party
20 years ago.
also, one of the cats shit on the rug this
morning
and in the first race I bet this afternoon
the horse tossed the jock
coming out of the gate.
downstairs
I have a large photo of Hemingway
drunk before noon in Havana, he’s on the floor
mouth open, his big belly trying to flop
out of his shirt.
I feel like that photo and I’m not even drunk.
maybe
that’s the problem.
whatever the
another
drink
c: gave the blade
another
spin.
fan letter
I been readin’ you for a long time now,
I just put Billy Boy to bed,
he got 7 mean ticks from somewhere,
I got 2,
my husband, Benny, he got 3.
some of us love bugs, others hate
them.
Benny writes poems.
he was in the same magazine as you
once.
Benny is the world’s greatest writer
but he got this temper.
he gave a readin’ once and somebody
laughed at one of his serious poems
and Benny took his thing out right
there
and pissed on stage.
he says you write good but that you
couldn’t carry his balls in a paper
bag.
anyhow, I made a BIG POT OF MARMALADE
tonight,
we all just LOVE marmalade here.
Benny lost his job yesterday, he told his
boss to stick it up his ass
but I still got my job down at the
manicure shop.
you know fags come in to get their nails
done?
you aren’t a fag, are you, Mr.
Chinaski?
anyhow, I just felt like writing you.
your books are read and read around
here.
Benny says you’re an old fart, you
write pretty good but that you
couldn’t carry his balls in a
paper sack.
do you like bugs, Mr. Chinaski?
I think the marmalade is cool enough to
eat now.
so goodbye.
Dora
hold on, it’s a belly laugh
it would be good to get
out of here,
just go,
pop off, get away from
memories of this
and all
that,
but staying has its
flavor too:
all those babes who
thought they were
hot numbers
now living in dirty
flats
while looking forward
to the next
episode on
some Soap Opera,
and all those guys,
those who really
thought
they were going to
make it,
grinning in the
Year Book with their
tight-skinned
mugs,
now they are
cops,
clerk typists,
operators of
sandwich stands,
horse grooms,
plops
in the dust.
it’s good to stay
around
to see what
happened to
all the
others-only
when you go to
the bathroom,
avoid the
mirror
and
don’t look
at
what you
flush
away.
finished
the ball comes up to the
plate and I can’t
see
it.
my batting average has dropped to
.231
small things constantly
irritate me
and I can’t sleep
nights.
“you’ll come back,
Harry,” my teammates
tell me.
then they grin and are
secretly
pleased.
I’ve been benched for a
22 year old
kid.
he looks good up there:
power, lots of line
drives.
“ever thought of coaching?”
the manager asks.
“no,” I tell him, “how about
you?”
when I get home my wife
asks, “you get in the lineup
tonight?”
“nope.”
“don’t worry, he’ll put you
in.”
“no, he won’t. I’m gonna
pinch hit the rest of the
season.”
I go into the bathroom and
look into the
mirror.
I’m no 22 year old
kid.
what gets me is that it
seemed to happen
overnight.
one night I was good.
the next night, it
seemed, I was
finished.
I come out of the bathroom
and my wife says,
“don’t worry, all you need
is a little
rest.”
“I been thinking about going
into coaching,” I tell
her.
“sure,” she says, “and after
that I’ll bet you’ll be a
good manager.”
“hell yes,” I say, “anything
on tv?”
zero
dark taste in mouth, my neck is stiff, I am looking for
my sonic vibrator, the music on my radio is diseased,
the winds of death seep through my slippers, and a
terrible letter in the mail today from a pale non-soul
who requests that he may come by to see me
in repayment, he says, for a ride he gave me home
from a drunken Pasadena party
20 years ago.
also, one of the cats shit on the rug this
morning
and in the first race I bet this afternoon
the horse tossed the jock
coming out of the gate.
downstairs
I have a large photo of Hemingway
drunk before noon in Havana, he’s on the floor
mouth open, his big belly trying to flop
out of his shirt.
I feel like that photo and I’m not even drunk.
maybe
that’s the problem.
whatever the
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