Come On In (13 page)

like this, sitting in my shorts, listening to a tenor

all the way from Cleveland

garnering applause on the radio.

I’ve never been to Cleveland. 

I sit here in my shorts on a humid night

now listening to Ravel with my gut hanging out

over my shorts.

my soft white gut.

I draw on this cigar, inhale, then blow

blue smoke as

Ravel waltzes.

I read a fan letter written to me from Japan.

then I rip it once, twice, three times, trash

it.

young girls send me photos of their naked

selves.

blank-faced, I set my lighter to the photos,

turn them to twisted black

ash. 

it’s midnight and I’m too dumb to

sweat. 

“oil and natural gas,” says the man on the radio,

“we need oil and natural gas

for the nation’s energy needs.”

“fuck you, buddy,” I say.

I scratch, yawn, rise, walk

to where my little refrigerator holds food

and drink. 

it takes me 7 steps to get there.

one for each decade. 

did you know that

to this very day

nobody can figure out how

they built the

pyramids? 

it was a good training ground out there

(although there were times

of fear and madness)

and there were times when it wasn’t kind

and there were times when my comrades were

cowardly

treacherous

or

debased. 

it taught me also

that there was no bottom to life

you could always fall lower

into a bestial groveling

and when you reached

that point

nobody cared or would ever

care.

and then, with no feelings left, that was the strangest

feeling of them

all. 

so, today I got into my BMW, drove to my

bank and picked up my American Express

Gold Card. (I always promised myself that I’d

write about that when it

happened.) 

I know what people will say: “Chinaski! writing about

his American Express Gold Card! who gives a damn

about
that?
or who cares that he’s now in

Who’s Who in America?
” 

I can’t think of another poet who makes people as

angry as I do.

I enjoy it

knowing that we are all brothers and sisters

in a very unkind extended

family

and I also never forget that

no matter

what the circumstances,

the park bench is never that far away

from any one of

us. 

a reader writes from Germany

that a lady friend saw me interviewed

on tv and then

told him

that to kiss my face would be a

disgusting thing. 

I wrote back that

she might be right, I didn’t know,

I’d never actually tried

it.

but really

I don’t write with my

face

I use my fingers

and this old Olympia

standard,

and with all the luck

I’ve had

I
should
kiss this

typer

but

I won’t. 

well, there, I just

did.

it was a cold kiss

but a faithful

one. 

and now the machine

answers back:

I love you too,

old boy. 

I know. I know.

they are limited, have different

needs and

concerns. 

but I watch and learn from them.

I like the little they know,

which is so

much. 

they complain but never

worry.

they walk with a surprising dignity.

they sleep with a direct simplicity that

humans just can’t

understand. 

their eyes are more

beautiful than our eyes.

and they can sleep 20 hours

a day

without

hesitation or

remorse. 

when I am feeling

low

all I have to do is

watch my cats

and my

courage

returns. 

I study these

creatures. 

they are my

teachers. 

fondly embracing mad hopes in my dreams the first intrusion

of day begins when that young cat of mine starts knocking

over and attacking things at 6:30 in the

morning. I rise to lead that frisky rascal down the

stairway and open the door where he always pauses

introspectively until I give him a gentle boot in the ass

and then he is gone into the blissful glory of the day while I then

climb back up the stairway to bed down again with wife who

has heard nothing who sleeps so still I must check

her breathing to make certain she’s alive and finding that

she’s o.k. I pull the covers up. I have the best hours of

sleep then before the long drive to the racetrack

one more time one more time and one more time again

until I get so old that the DMV will take away my driver’s

license and I will have to ride the bus out there

with the damned ghost people son-of-a-bitch what an

awful goddamned thought better to stay home with wife and

cats putter with paints a la Henry Miller and also

help with the weeding and the shopping while the last of

the sun slants in like a golden sword. 

I need a light pine kitchen, a new freezer, a picture window,

a first-alert ready-light, a pair of jogging shoes, some real

excitement, a yellow banjo, hot chips, a spark, two love birds,

sheer stockings, a touch of miracle, a March star, a true woman, a

new fantasy, a spicy sky, a charmed quark, some luck, a

VISA card, a walrus, a sunset at the beach, a well-

seasoned cigar, an antelope, a racy subject, an ideal to fight for, a

rainbow, a halcyon holiday and 

a winner in the first, a winner in the second, a winner in the

third, a winner in the fourth, a winner in the

fifth. 

hell, that’s what I got just now: a winner in the

fifth! 

couldn’t you

guess? 

I’m only guessing, of course, as

usual but here goes:

when the ladies gather over

cocktails they talk about

how their husbands tend to

stifle them, smother their creative

instinct, their natural joy,

their ultimate female

selves.

without their husbands they

would float free

and thrive and grow

without limit

as they were meant to do. 

but ladies, I will tell you

this:

when men gather they

never talk about their

wives.

we discuss the

Dallas Cowboys

or the new barmaid at

The Bat Cove Tavern

or about how Tyson would

kick Holyfield’s ass … 

unconcerned with

petty argument

we have floated free …

giant macho soaring

balloons!

WHEE! 

the last hour at the typewriter is only

good

if you’ve had a lucky and

productive

night,

otherwise

your time and effort have been

wasted. 

this night

I feel good about the poems scattered

on the floor. 

the door of this room is

open

and I can see out into the

night,

see part of the city to

my left;

see many lights—yellow, white

red, blue;

see also the moving lights

of the cars

traveling south on the

Harbor Freeway. 

the lights of this city

are not at rest,

they shimmer in the

dark.

a blue tree outside the

window

looms powerful and at

peace. 

my death,

after so many nights

like this,

will seem

logical,

sane

and

(like a few of my poems)

well-

written. 

$650,000 home, swimming pool, tennis court,

sauna, 4 late-model cars, a starlet wife;

he was blond, young, broad-shouldered, great

smile, great sense of humor.

he was an investor, said his starlet wife.

but he always seemed to be at home. 

one afternoon

while he was playing tennis with his friends

two plainclothes cops

walked up

handcuffed him

took him

off. 

it was in the papers the next day: he was a

hit man wanted for killing over fifty

men. 

what bothered the neighbors most was

not who would move in next

but

when

had he found time to do it? 

what will you write about? he asks.

you no longer live with whores, you no

longer engage in barroom brawls, what

will you write about? 

he seems to think that I’ve manufactured

a life to suit my typewriter

and if my life gets good

my writing will get bad. 

I tell him that trouble will always

arrive, never worry about

that. 

he doesn’t seem to understand.

he asks,

what will your readers

think? 

Norman Mailer still has

his readers,

I say. 

but you’re different,

he says. 

not at all, I say,

we’re both about

25 pounds

overweight.

he stares at me

unblinking

through dull

gray

eyes. 

sitting across from my lawyer, I

decide, at this time, one needs a good

lawyer, a tax accountant, a decent

auto mechanic, a sympathetic doctor and

a faithful wife, in order to

survive.

also, one needs some talent of one’s own,

very few friends, a good home security

system and the ability to sleep peacefully at

night. 

you need at least this much in order to

get by and naturally you also must

hope to evade a long illness and / or

senility; finally, you can only

pray for a quick clean finish with

very little subsequent mourning by everybody

closely connected. 

sitting across from my lawyer, I

have these thoughts.

we are on the 16th floor of a downtown office

building

and I like my lawyer, he has fine eyes,

great manners.

also, he has gotten my ass out of

several jams. 

(meanwhile, among other things, you also need

a plumber who doesn’t overbill and

an honest jockey who knows where the

finish line is.) 

you need all the above (and more) before

you can go home with a clear mind, open a

wooden box labeled
Sumatra Cum

Laude
, take one out, light it

and take a quick puff or two

before the bluebird leaves

your shoulder,

before the snow melts,

and before the rain and the traffic

and our hurly-burly life

churn everything into

black

slush. 

dark, dark, dark.

humanity’s shadow

shrouds the moon.

the process is

eternal. 

once, I imagined that

in my old age

there would be

peace,

but not this:

dark humanity’s

insufferable

relentless

presence. 

humanity claws

at me

as persistently

now

as in the

beginning.

I was not born to be

one with them

yet here I am

with only

the thought

of death

and that final

separation

to comfort me. 

so there’s no chance,

no

hope,

just this waiting,

sitting here

tonight

surrounded

unsure

caught

transfixed,

the hours, the years,

this minute,

mutilated. 

climbing back up out of the ooze, out of

the thick black tar,

rising up again, a modern

Lazarus.

you’re amazed at your good

fortune.

somehow you’ve had more

than your share of second

chances.

hell, accept it.

what you have, you have.

you walk and look in the bathroom

mirror

at an idiot’s smile.

you know your luck.

some go down and never climb back up.

something is being kind to you.

you turn from the mirror and walk into the

world.

you find a chair, sit down, light a cigar.

back from a thousand wars

you look out from an open door into the silent

night.

Sibelius plays on the radio.

nothing has been lost or destroyed.

you blow smoke into the night,

tug at your right

ear.

baby, right now, you’ve got it

all.