Come On In (3 page)

one of the problems is

that when most people

sit down to write a poem

they think,

“now I am going to write a

poem”

and then

they go on to write a poem

that

sounds like a poem

or what they think

a poem should sound like.

this is one of their

problems.

of course, there are other

problems:

those writers of poems

that sound like poems

think that they then must

go around

reading them

to other people.

this, they say, is done

for status and recognition

(they are careful

not to mention

vanity

or the need for

instantaneous

approbation

from some

sparse, addled

crowd).

the best poems

it seems to me

are written out of

an ultimate

need.

and once the poem is

written,

the only need

after that

is to write

another.

and the silence

of the printed page

is the

best response

to a finished

work.

in decades past

I once warned

some poet-friends

of mine

about the masturbatory

nature of poetry readings

done just

for the applause of

a handful of

idiots.

“isolate yourself and

do your work and if you

must mix, then do it

with those who

have no interest at all

in what you consider

so

important.”

such anger,

such a self-righteous

response

did I receive then

from my poet-friends

that it seemed to me

that I had exactly

proved my

point.

after that,

we all drifted

apart.

and that solved just

one of my

problems

and I suppose

just one of

theirs.

he is behind me,

talking to somebody:

“well, I like the 5 horse, he closed well last

time, I like a horse who can close.

but you know, you gotta kinda consider

the 4 and the 12.

the 4 needed his last race and look at

him, he’s reading 40-to-1 now.

the 12’s got a chance too.

and look at the 9, he looks really good,

really got a shine to his skin.

then too, you also gotta consider the 7 …”

every now and then I consider murdering

somebody, it just flashes in my mind for a

moment, then I dismiss it and rightfully

so.

I considered murdering the man who

belonged to the voice I heard,

then I worked on dismissing the thought.

and to make sure, I changed my seat,

I moved far down to my left,

I found a seat between a woman wearing a

sun shade and a young man violently

chewing on a mouthful of

gum.

then I felt

better.

a heavyweight fighter called Young Stribling

was killed in the ring

so long ago

that I am certain

that I am the only one remembering him

tonight.

I am thinking of nobody else.

I sit here in this room and stare at the

lamp

and I think,

Stribling, Stribling.

outside

the starved palms continue to

decay

while in here

I remember and

watch a cigarette lighter,

an empty glass and a

wristwatch propped delicately on its

side.

Stribling.

son-of-a-bitch,

what causes me to think

about things like this?

I really don’t need to know,

yet I wonder.

dear sir:

thank you for your manuscript

but this is to inform you

that I have no special influence

with any editor or publisher

and if I did

I would never dream of telling

them who or what

to publish.

I myself have never mailed any

of my work to anybody but

an editor or a publisher.

despite the fact that

my own work

was rejected for

decades,

I still never considered

mailing my work to

another writer

hoping that this other

writer might help me

get published.

and although I have

read some of what you

have mailed me

I return the work without

comment

except to ask

how did you get my

address?

and the effrontery

to mail me such

obvious

crap?

if you think me unkind,

fine.

and thank you for telling

me that I am a

great writer.

now you will have a

chance to re-evaluate

that opinion

and to choose another

victim.

it’s unholy.

I appear to be

lost. I walk from room to room and

there aren’t many (2 or 3)

and she is in the dark room

snoring, I can’t see her but her

mouth is open and her hair is gray

poor thing

and she doesn’t mean me harm

least of all

does she mean me

harm,

and in the other room are

pink lips pink ears

on a head like a cabbage

and a child’s blocks on the floor like

leprosy

and she also doesn’t mean me any harm at

all,

but I cannot sleep and I sit in the kitchen

with a big black fly

that goes around and around and around

like a piece of snot grown a

heart,

and I am puzzled and not given to

cruelty (I’d like to think)

and I sit with the fly

under this yellow light

and we smoke a cigar and drink beer

and share the calendar with a frightened cat:

“ katzen-unsere hausfrende: 1965.”

I am a poor father because I want to stay alive as a

man but perhaps I never was a

man.

I suck on the cigar and suddenly the fly is gone

and there are just

the 3 of us

here.

I put the book down and ask:

why are they always writing about

the bulls, the bullfighters?

those who have never seen

them?

and as I break the web of the

spider reaching for my wine,

the hum of bombers

breaking the solace, I decide

I must write an impatient letter to my

priest about some 3rd St.

whore

who keeps calling me up at 3 in

the morning.

ass full of

splinters,

thinking of pocketbook poets

and the priest,

I go over to the typewriter

next to the window

to see to my letter

and look look

the sky’s black as ink

and my wife says Brock, for

Christ’s sake,

the typewriter all night,

how can I sleep? and I crawl quickly

into bed and

kiss her hair and say

sorry sorry sorry

sometimes I get excited

I don’t know why …

a friend of mine has

written a book about

Manolete …

who’s that? nobody, kid,

somebody dead

like Chopin or our old mailman

or a dog,

go to sleep, go to sleep,

and I kiss her and rub her

head,

a good woman,

and soon she sleeps as I wait

for morning.

unsaid, said the snail.

untold, said the tortoise.

doesn’t matter, said the tiger.

obey me, said the father.

be loyal, said the country.

watch me climb, said the vine.

doesn’t matter, said the tiger.

untold, said the tortoise,

unsaid, said the snail.

I’ll run, said the mouse.

I’ll hide, said the cat.

I’ll fly, said the sparrow.

I’ll swim, said the whale.

obey and be loyal, said the

father and

everybody shut up! roared the

Queen.

the night came and all

the lights went out

as the cities

burned.

now, go to

sleep.

holy Christ, I was on fire then and

I’d tell that whore I lived with on Beacon Street

starving and drinking

I’d tell her that I had something great and mysterious

going for me,

in fact, when I got really drunk I’d pace the floor in my

dirty torn shorts and ripped undershirt and

say more in desperation than belief: “I’m a fucking

genius and nobody knows it but

me!”

I thought this was rather humorous but she’d say, “honey, you’re

full of shit, pour us another drink!”

she was crazy too and now and then an empty bottle would come

flying toward my head.

(she

missed most of the time)

but

when she bounced one off my skull I’d ignore it, and pour another

drink because

after all, when you’re immortal, nothing

matters.

and besides, she had one of the finest pair of legs I’d ever

seen

in those high-heeled shoes and with her slender

ankles and her great knees glimmering in the

smoky drunken light.

she helped me through some of the worst times and if she was

here now we’d both laugh our goddamned asses

off

knowing it was all so true and real, and yet that somehow it

wasn’t real at

all.

we were out on the town

and we

went to this nice

house, lovely couple, etc.

anyhow, there were 7 or

8 of us and a jug of really

cheap wine

came out and then some

snacks, and then the man

got up and came back with

3 live goldfish and he said,

“watch this!”

and he put them in a large

fish tank

and the next thing I knew

there were 6 or 7 heads

down there glued to the fish tank

including my girlfriend’s

and the soft light from the tank

shone on all the faces

and in all the eyes,

and one of the men went,

“ah!” and one of the girls

went, “oooh!”

some terrible thing was eating the

goldfish.

then somebody said, “look,

there’s just half-a-goldfish

left and he’s still swimming

around!”

I said, “why don’t you fucking

party animals

get up off that rug

and help me finish this

cheap wine?”

12 or 14 eyes turned and looked at

me. then one at a time

the people moved away from

the fish tank and came back and sat

down at the table

again.

then they began a discussion about

the merits of

little literary

magazines.

the time comes when the tank runs

dry and you have to

refill

if you can.

the vulture swoops low over

you

as you open the manila envelope

from the ivy league university and

read:

“we have to pass on this batch of poems

but we are reading again in the

Fall.”

“you were rejected?” asks my

wife.

“yes.”

“well, fuck them,” she says.

now, there’s loyalty!

the vulture pauses in mid-flight,

defecates,

and flies out of the dining room

window.

and I think, it’s nice that they’ll be

reading again in the

Fall.

we are surprised:

you used to jab with the left

then throw a left hook to the body

followed by an

overhand right.

we liked that

but we like your new way too:

where you can’t tell where

the next punch

is coming

from.

to change your style like that when you’re

not exactly a kid

anymore,

I think that takes some

doing.

anyhow, enough chitchat.

we’re accepting your poems

for our departmental Literary Journal

and, by the way,

you are one of the poets selected for

class discussion

in our Contemporary Poetry Series.

no shit, baby?

well, suck my

titties.