Come On In (8 page)

it’s just as well

you should see me now

driving to the racetrack 

a tiny German flag decorating the rear

window. 

I dislike the heavy traffic on the

boulevard and

I drive through the back streets of the black

ghetto. 

the years have gone by

quickly. 

Death sits in the seat next to

me. 

we make a lovely

couple. 

a man finds consolation while driving

and waiting. 

one consolation is

how lucky I am

that I never settled down permanently

with any one of the

ladies.

driving along, that thought comes back to

me and falls at my feet. 

Death picks it up

looks at me

shudders

and quickly fastens his

seat belt. 

she’s got a 6- month-old baby

and a 9- year-old

son,

but

she said

it sure beats the factories. 

why do those guys just sit there and

stare at that thing

when a woman’s dancing? I

asked. 

they memorize it, she said, then they

go home and flog off. I danced last

night and nobody watched me.

they were all watching some movie

where this woman was fingering

herself, and

after I finished my dance

I stood there and told them,

you guys are going to go crazy watching that

shit. you don’t know where you’re at

anymore. 

you know, some of those guys freaked

out? about 7 of them got up and

left.

no shit, I said.

no shit, she said. I’ve worked 3 different places

since I’ve seen you

last. but it beats the factories and

it beats the

streets.

at least you can catch a drink

once in a while. 

yes, that’s right,

I told her,

that’s right. 

lying in the sack in the dark

sick from days of drinking.

head hurting

tongue thick.

watching tv

phone off the hook.

tired of trying to relate to the

female,

I watch tv.

the walls stacked up around me

like shields.

I watch these guys blasting holes

in people

with their submachineguns.

they need money

they have trouble with their molls

things keep

screwing up.

I get up to piss during a tire

commercial.

when I get back the main guy is

lying out in a field with his

moll.

there’s a stream below them.

it’s peaceful but he has a cigar

stuck into his mouth and a .357 magnum

resting in his shoulder holster.

the moll leans over him

she has blonde wispy hair which flicks

in the wind.

she says, “Johnny, why don’t you give

it up?”

“give
what
up?” he asks.

“you know, Johnny,” she says, “killing

people and all that …”

“now, baby,” he says, “I’m just trying

to get by.”

“you could give all that up, Johnny, we

could settle down in a nice little place

with a picket fence and have babies …”

“ah, now, baby, that life ain’t for

me.”

“well, Johnny,” she smiles, “it’s either

give it up or lose me …”

he sits up

pushes her away:

“no, baby! you don’t
mean
that?”

“yes,” she says, “I
do
, Johnny!”

“I’m not going to live without you,

baby,” he says

takes out the .357

jams it between her legs and

pulls the trigger.

I get up

go to the refrigerator and

get a beer.

when I come back

there’s a shaving cream commercial

on.

I drain the beer

toss it in the basket

put the phone back on the hook

dial a number.

she answers and I say, “listen,

baby, I can’t have you around

anymore, you

get in the way.

sorry.”

I hang up

take the phone back

off the hook.

time for another beer.

I like gangster movies

best.

it’s stupid, I know, but I have an

ability to feel happy for little or no reason,

it’s not a great elation, it’s

more like a steady

warmth—

something like a warm heater on a cold

night.

I have no religion, and not even a

decent philosophy

and I’m not

stupid: I know that death will finally

arrive

but don’t consider even this to be

a negative

factor.

which is to say that in spite of

everything, I feel good

most of the

time.

I appear to handle setbacks, bad

luck, minor tragedies, without

difficulty, my mood remains

unchanged.

much experience, perhaps, has taught

me

how to remain unmoved.

yet there is one situation

I can’t endure:

a bitter, depressed, angry

woman

can still murder any

good feelings

that I might have—and

just like that I despair and

fall into a black

pit.

this occurs with some

regularity and unfortunately

in the wink of an

eye I am sullen and

depressed.

and that’s stupid,

I should be able to ignore

female

disorders

even as the dark shit

(that despite the dark shit)

floods my

brain.

there was my cheap hotel; I was up on the 4th floor; I’d

bring a lady in from the bar 2 or 3 times a week and we’d burst into that

lobby like we wanted to wreck something, and the desk clerk, a really

nice fellow, was terrified of me, I was big of chest and gut and when

the writing was going badly, which it often was, upon

entering with my lady, I’d take it out on the desk clerk: “hey,

buddy, I think I’ll take one of your legs, twist it up the middle

of your back and wind you like a clock!”

I had him so scared he only called the cops once or twice and I

had fun with the cops—barricading the door and listening to the dumb

useless double-talk that cops liked to use; I always wore them

down and they never got in. 

up there I stripped to my undershirt and shorts, I was nuts,

had very muscular legs, strutted up and down the room saying, “look at

my legs, baby! you ever seen legs like that?” 

I always pretended to be the toughest guy in town but

when it actually came to fighting I wasn’t all that good: I

could take a hell of a punch and didn’t have much fear but my own left

hook and right cross were missing, and worse, I couldn’t seem to

get the hatred going, it all seemed a joke to me, even when some guy was

crushing my head against the edge of some urinal.

but let’s forget all that! up on that 4th floor, I was best, the red neon

sign near the downtown library flashing CHRIST SAVES, me

strutting about and proclaiming, “nobody knows I’m a genius but

me!”

and all the time I was strutting I would glance over at my lady of

the night, looking at those legs, those high heels, thinking, I’m going

to rip the love out of those high-heeled shoes and those ankles and those

thighs and that dumb pitiful face, I’m going to make her come alive!

and poor Hemingway, I thought, never met dolls like I’ve met

dolls!

which was true.

he would have walked away.

as gentle as a butterfly

fluttering in the

murdered light

you came through here

like fire singing

and when it was over

the walls came down

the flags went up

and love was finished.

you left behind a pair of shoes

an old purse

and some birthday and

Xmas cards

from me all

held together

by a green rubber

band.

all well and good enough,

I suppose,

because

when your lover is gone,

thank the gods,

the silence is

final.

weep for the indifference of flying fish

weep for the absence of long-haired blondes

weep for the sadness of yourself

weep for Bach

weep for the extinct animals

weep for grandfather’s clock

weep for weeping

because no one cares

the doors open in and out

the lights go on and off

teeth are pulled

I forgive the indifference of flying fish

I forgive the butterfly and the moth

I forgive the first woman who held my psyche

in her fingertips when

I was sold into captivity

long ago.

he lived in the Village

in New York

in the old days

and only after he died

did he get a write-up

in a snob magazine,

a magazine which had

never printed his

poems. 

he came from the days

when poets called

themselves

Bohemians.

he wore a beret and a

scarf

and hung around the

cafés,

bummed drinks,

sometimes got a

night’s lodging from the

rich

(just for

laughs)

but mostly

he slept in the alleys

at night.

the whores knew him

well

and gave him

little

hand-outs. 

he was a communist

or a

socialist

depending upon what

he was

reading

at that

moment. 

it was 1939

and he had a

burning hatred

in his heart

for the

Nazis. 

when he

recited his poems

in the street

he always

ended up

frothing about the

Nazis. 

he passed out

little stapled

pages

of his

poems

and

he wrote

with a

simple

intensity. 

he was good

but not

great. 

and even the good poems

were not

that

good. 

anyhow

he was an

attraction;

the tourists always

asked for

him. 

he was always

in love

with some

new whore. 

he had a

real

soul

and the usual

real

needs. 

he stank

and wore cast-off clothes

and he screamed

when he spoke

but

at least

he wasn’t anybody

but

himself. 

the Village was

his

Paris.

but unlike

Henry Miller

who made

failure

glorious

and finally

lucrative

he didn’t know

quite how

to accomplish

that. 

instead of being

a

genius-freak

he was just

a

freak-freak.

but most of

the writers and

painters

who also had failed

loved him

because he

symbolized

for them

the possibility

of being

recognized.

they too wore

scarves and

berets

and did more

complaining than

creating. 

but then they

lost him. 

he was found

one morning

in an

alley

wrapped around

his latest

whore.

both of them

had their

throats

cut

wide. 

and

on the wall

above them

in their

blood

were scrawled

the words:

“COMMIE PIG!” 

another freak

had found

him?

a

freak- Nazi?

or maybe

just a

freak-freak? 

but his

murder

finally created

the fame

he had always

wanted,

though it was

to be but

temporary. 

he was to

have a

final

fling

in this

his

crazy

life and

death. 

he had left

an envelope

with a prominent

Matron of the

Arts,

marked:

TO BE OPENED

ONLY IN THE EVENT

OF

MY DEATH. 

all during his

stay in the

Village

he had spoken

about a mysterious

WORK IN

PROGRESS.

he had claimed

he’d written a

GIGANTIC WORK,

more pages than

a couple of

telephone

books.

it would

dwarf Pound’s

Cantos

and put a

headlock

on the

Bible. 

the instructions

were

specific:

the WORK was

in an iron

chest

buried

in a graveyard

30 yards

south and west

of a certain tree

(indicated on a

hand-drawn

map)

the tree

where he claimed

Whitman once

rested

while he wrote

“I Celebrate Myself.” 

the ground

all about was

soon

dug up and

searched. 

nothing was

found. 

some Romantics

claimed it was

still

there

somewhere. 

Realists

claimed it never had

been there. 

maybe the

Nazis

got there

first? 

at any rate

it was

shortly after

that

that

almost all the

poets

in the

Village 

and most poets

living

elsewhere 

stopped

wearing

scarves and

berets

and reluctantly

went off to

war.