Come On In (4 page)

don’t worry, Dostoevsky,

the fish and the hills and the harbor

and the girls and the horses and the

alleys and the nights and the dogs

and the knives and the poisons and

the wines and the midgets and the

gamblers and the lights and the guns

and the lies and the sacrifices

and the flies and the frogs and the

flags and the doors and the windows

and the stairways and the cigarettes

and the hotels and myself have been

around a long time.

just like you.

the night the poets dropped by to say

hello

was at the time

that terrible time when

the ladies on the telephone

were screaming their fury

at me.

the night the poets came by to say

hello

I offered them cigarettes

as they talked about the

poet

who traveled all the way to Paris

in order to be able

to select the contents

of his next book

and we smiled at that

the poets and I

as we remembered starvation

dark mornings

deadly noons

evenings of elephantine

misery.

the night the poets came by to say

hello

we also mused about whatever happened to

Barney Google with the googly

eyes: he probably died for the love of

a strumpet as many good men

have

or went to London and walked in the

fog

waiting for

what?

the night the poets came by to say

hello

the walls were stained mellow with

grief

and beakers of curdled wine

dusty with dead spiders

sat about like memories best

forgotten.

the poets insisted then that it was best

not to think too much about things

or remember too much

but best just to sit around

in the evenings

and smoke our cigarettes and

drink our

beer

and talk quietly about

simple

things.

the poets

left soon after that

but the phone kept ringing

and I stood there frozen

as the ladies screamed their fury

at me.

what they wanted I didn’t have

and what I had

they didn’t want.

I continue to receive many letters

from young ladies.

evidently they have read some of

my books

but

they hardly ever

mention this.

many of their letters are

on pink or red

stationery

and they inform me that

they want to

kiss my lips and

they want to

come and stay with me

and

they say they will do anything

and everything

for and to me for

as long as

I can keep up with

them.

also, the younger ones are quick

to mention their

age: 21, 22, 23.

these letters are

fascinating, of

course,

but I always trash

them

for I know that all things

have their price

especially when they

are advertised as being

free.

besides,

what does it all mean?

bugs fuck, birds

fuck, horses

fuck, maybe some day they’ll

find that

even wind, water and

rocks

fuck.

and

where were all these eager

girls

when I was starving,

broke, young and

alone?

they were

not born yet, of

course.

I can’t blame them now

for

that.

but I do blame the girls

of my youth

for ignoring me and

for bedding down with all the

other

milkfish souls.

those other lads, I suppose,

were grateful then to

sink their spike into

any willing thing that

moved.

I only wish now some lass had

chanced upon me then

when I so needed her hair blowing in my

face

and her eyes smiling into mine,

when I so needed

that wild music

and that wild female willingness

to be

undone.

but they left me to sit alone

in tiny rented rooms

with only the company

of elderly landladies

and the comings and goings

of unsympathetic

roaches, they

left me terribly alone with

suicide mornings and

park bench

nights.

and now that

they are old

and

I am old

I don’t want to know

them

now

or even to know

their

daughters

even though

the gods

in their infinite wisdom

still refuse to

let me

forget and

rest.

they’re right: maybe it’s been too easy just writing about myself and

horses and drinking, but then I’m not trying to prove anything. taking

long walks lately has been pleasant and although my desire for the female

remains, I find that I needn’t always be on the lookout for new conquests.

riding the same mare need not be boring. let the wild young fillies be a

problem for other men. I am often satisfied just being alone. I now find

people more amusing than disgusting (am I weakening?) and although

I still have nights and days of depression the typewriter does not fail me.

readers expect continual growth from their poets but at this time just

holding (the fort, haha) seems miraculous. long walks, yes. and the ability

not to care—at times—as our society erupts and struggles does not mean

that I am the victim of artistic loss. solitary evenings behind drawn blinds,

being neither rich nor poor, can be satisfying. will madness arrive on

schedule? I don’t know and I don’t seek an answer—just a small quiet

space between not knowing, not wanting to know and finally finding out. 

who? Chinaski? he hates fags and women.

he’s a drunk. he beats his wife. he’s a Nazi.

he only writes about sex and drinking. who

cares about that?

and he’s a nasty drunk.

I don’t understand what people see in his

writing.

I
am the real genius and now

Chinaski has asked his publishers not to

publish me!

I’ve
known some of the greatest writers

of our time!

Chinaski has met nobody.

I
got him his start!

I
got him included in that prestigious

anthology!

how does he repay me?

he writes unflattering things about

me.

and he claims he’s lived with all

those beautiful women.

have you ever seen his face?

who would bed down a man

like that?

and he’s had no education, no formal

training.

he has no idea what a stanza

is.

or for that matter—a line

break.

he just begins at the top

of the page and runs on to the

bottom.

and he says things like,

“Shakespeare bores me.”

Shakespeare!

imagine that!

and the only people he cares to see

now are the Hollywood stars!

he doesn’t want to see anybody

else.

well, I don’t want to see him

either.

I remember when he lived

in rooms the size of a

closet.

now that he has had a few books

published

he’s too good for the

rest of us!

look, I’m tired of talking about

Chinaski.

I want you to look at these

poems here.

my Collected Works,

my
work of a lifetime.

I sent them to Chinaski for a

reading,

asked for a foreword or

at least a

blurb.

that was two months ago and

not a word from him

since.

not even a sign that

he’s received the

stuff.

and I got him his start!

I got him in that prestigious anthology!

and then he asked his publishers not

to publish me! 

at 9:50 the dogs started barking.

a few minutes later there was an earthquake

near Palm Springs.

the television stations break into their

programs with the news.

then the radio stations begin belaboring

the situation and

the earthquake experts at Caltech are

asked for their opinion.

the announcers are in their element.

phones begin to ring

in radio stations all

over the city.

yes, it was a quake.

yes, there will be aftershocks.

yes, we should check for gas leaks

and run a supply of water into the tub.

yes, we are all as one now.

yes, we have something we can all talk about

and we can talk about it

together.

yes, we should all call our friends

to be sure they’re safe.

(I can only wonder,

will some say they were copulating when

it happened?

will others have been sitting on the

toilet?

so many people may have been copulating

or sitting on the toilet!)

the announcer continues:

what’s that, caller?

you say you were copulating on the toilet

when it happened?

this is no time to be funny!

now we will switch to our Eye in the

Sky.

Henderson?

Henderson, are you there?

Henderson?

very well, ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have

lost contact with Henderson

so we’ll go to our roving reporter who is now

on the scene.

Barbara, are you there?

I liked him

he was clever and he could make me laugh

and often when he worked the case next to

mine we would stick our letters together and

talk

even though it was against the

rules.

he had become an American citizen

had found his way into the post office

and owned a movie theatre in

Mexico City.

I usually disliked ambitious fellows

but this guy was humorous so I forgave

him his ambition.

“hey, man,” he asked me one night,

“how long has it been since you had

a piece of ass?”

“god, I don’t know, man, 10 years

I guess.”

“10 years? how old are you?”

“50.”

“well, listen, I’ve been shacked with this

crazy woman, you know, and I’ve told her all

about you and I thought I might send her

over to your place some night, she could cook

you dinner or something. how about it?”

“please do not project your troubles

upon me,” I told him.

“I didn’t think it would work,”

he said with a grin.

the supervisor walked up behind us and

stood there.

“listen, I’ve warned you guys about

talking!”

“about talking when?” I asked.

“listen,” he said, “just keep it up and I’ll

fry your ass!”

“you win,” I said.

the supervisor walked away.

interesting things like that happened there

almost every night!

I do not want to meet

them or

their wife

or look at

photographs of

their

children.

this is

serious business

this is

war

all

the

time.

I look into

their

maledict

eyes,

excuse myself

and walk

away.

and as

Rome burns and as

the odds

flash on the

tote board

Lady Luck

smiles,

crosses

her

legs

and

applauds

my

grit.

the sky is broken like a wet sack of

offal.

the air stinks, I walk into a building,

wait for the elevator, it arrives, I get in and

join 3 people with new shoes and

dead eyes.

we rise toward the tenth floor.

one of the people is a big woman

with long brown hair.

she begins to hum a little song.

I hate it.

I press the button and get off the

elevator 2 floors

early.

I wait for the next elevator.

it arrives.

it’s empty.

it’s a beautiful elevator.

I go up two floors, get out and

walk down the hall looking for

room 1002.

I find it.

I go in.

I tell the receptionist that I have a

2 o’clock appointment.

she tells me to be seated, that

they will be with me

soon.

I sit down.

there is only one other person in

the waiting room.

it is the big woman who was humming

the little song on the

elevator.

now she is silent.

she wears a green dress and

pretends to read a

magazine.

I look at her legs.

not good legs.

I get up and walk out, walk down

the hall.

I find a water fountain,

bend over, drink some

water.

then I walk back to

1002.

the woman in the green

dress is gone

but where she was

sitting on that chair

there is her green dress,

nicely folded, her shoes

and her panty

hose.

her purse is gone.

the receptionist slides

back the glass partition

and smiles at me:

“we’ll be with you

soon!”

as she slides the

partition closed

I get up and walk out of there,

fast.

I take the elevator down.

soon I am at the first floor and

then I am outside on the

street.

as I walk away from the

building I look back.

flames are rising from

the windows of the tenth

floor and spreading up.

nobody on the street seems

to notice.

I decide to have lunch.

I look for a place to eat.

I walk along humming the

same little song that the big

woman hummed.

it’s now about 95 degrees on a hot

Wednesday afternoon in

August

exactly one

year from

yesterday.