Come On In (5 page)

one night I started

shivering, I got
ice cold
, I shivered and

shook for 2 and one half hours, the whole

bed jumped, it was like an

earthquake.

“you’re panicking,” said my girl. “breathe deeply

and try to relax.”

“I’m not panicking,” I said. “death doesn’t

mean shit to me. this is coming from some

place that I don’t understand.”

all during the freezing and shaking,

my only thought was, well, I’ve written my 5th

novel but I haven’t made the final revisions yet.

it’s not fair that I die

now.

then I got well and revised my 5th novel and

it’s supposed to be out next spring, so you

know I won’t die, be killed, or catch a fatal

disease until then.

even in midlife I never

dreamed I’d write a novel

and here I’ve written 5, it’s a bloody

miracle, a shout from the heart,

far from the school yards of hell

which started the luck

and far from

the world of hell that followed and

which kept it

going.

here

there’s less and less reason to write as they all close in.

I’ve barricaded the doors and windows, have bottled water, canned

food, candles, tools, rope, bandages, toothpicks, catnip,

mousetraps, reading material, toilet paper, blankets, firearms,

mirrors, knives

—cigarettes, cigars, candy—

memories, regrets, my birth certificate,

photographs of

picnics

parades

invasions;

I have roach spray, fine French wine, paper clips and last year’s

calendar because

THIS COULD BE MY LAST POEM.

it could happen and, of course, I’ve considered and

reconsidered

death

but I haven’t yet come up with how, which makes me feel

rather foolish about everything,

especially now.

—just waiting is the worst.

nothing worse than waiting

just waiting. always hated to

wait. what’s there about waiting that’s so

intolerable?

—like you’re waiting for me to finish this

poem and

I don’t know exactly

how

so I won’t.

—so, if you happen to read this

in a magazine or a book

just

rip the page out

tear it up

and that’s the graceful way

to end this poem

once and for

all.

almost ever since I began writing

decades ago

I have been dogged by

whisperers and gossips

who have proclaimed

daily

weekly

yearly

that

I can’t write anymore

that now

I slip

and fall.

when I first began

there was much complaining about

the content of my

poems and stories.

“who cares about the low life of a

drunken bum?

is that all he can write about,

whores and puking?”

and now

their complaint is:

“who cares about the life of a

rich

bum?

why doesn’t he write about whores

and puking

anymore?”

the Academics consider me

too raw

and I haven’t consorted with most of the

others.

 the few people I know well have nothing to do

with poetry. 

there has also been envy-hatred

on the part of

some fellow writers

but I consider this

one of my finest

accomplishments.

when I first began this dangerous

game

I predicted that these

very things would

occur.

let them all rail:

if it wasn’t me,

it would just be someone

else.

these

gossips and complainers,

what have
they
accomplished

anyway?

never having risen

they

can neither

slip nor

fall. 

I saw too many faces today

faces like balloons.

at times I felt like

lifting the skin

and asking,

“anybody under there?”

there are medical terms for

fear of height

for

fear of

enclosed spaces.

there are medical terms for

any number of

maladies

so

there must be a medical term

for:

“too many people.”

I’ve been stricken with

this malady

all my life:

there has always been

“too many people.”

I saw too many faces

today, hundreds of

them

with eyes, ears, lips,

mouths, chins and so

forth

and

I’ve been alone

for several hours

now

and

I feel that I am

recovering.

which is the good part

but the problem

remains

that I know I’m going to

have to go out there

among them

again.

if we can’t find the courage to go on,

what will we do?

what should we do?

what would you do?

if we can’t find the courage to go on,

then

what day

what minute

in what year

did we go

wrong?

or was it an accumulation of all the

years?

I have some answers.

to die, yes.

to go mad, maybe.

or perhaps to

gamble everything away?

if we can’t find the courage to go on,

what should we do?

what did all the others

do?

they went on

living their lives,

badly.

we’ll do the same,

probably.

living too long

takes more than

time.

yes, I know that you think

I am wrong

but

I know what is right for me

and what

is not.

may I tell you my

dream? 

I am surrounded by

thick cement walls,

I am dressed in a red

robe

and I am sitting at an

organ.

there is

not a

sound.

I begin to play the

organ.

the hiss of the notes

is sharp and soft

at the same

time. 

it is a slightly bitter

music

but among the dark notes

there are flashes of light and

laughter.

as I play,

the incomprehensible mystery

of the past

and of the present

becomes

comprehensible. 

and best of all,

as I play,

nobody hears the music

but me. 

the music is only for

me. 

that is my

dream. 

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. 

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. 

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, baby!” 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.