Hollywood (5 page)

Back at my place there were two envelopes. While Sarah got a bottle of wine I opened one of the envelopes. It was a manuscript of some sort, with a covering note:

Chinaski! Piss on you! You were once a great writer! Now you suck! You’ve sold out! My grandmother writes better shit than you do! You’ve had your head up your asshole too long! I sent my stuff to your publisher and he sent back a letter. He said “Thank you for submitting but we are overstocked.” The prick, I’ll overstock his butthole! He gobbles shit for breakfast!

The great poets are ignored. They are afraid of the great poets! You were once a great poet but now you are only a band-aid covering a pus-hole! You gobble your own weenie under a sky of vomit! You’ve sold your balls to the butcher! You’ve killed the baby of your love! You are monkey stink! Forever and ever and ever!

I enclose some of my latest work...

He signed his name with a leaping downward stroke to the right, making a long curving line after the last letter of his name, and below that, what appeared to be a drawing of a face.

It was an envelope full of poems, none of them typewritten. They were hastily printed in blue ink on yellow paper with thin blue lines.

Sarah brought the wine bottle and corkscrew, opened it herself and poured two glasses.

“Charles Manson,” she said, “no wonder they wanted to let that place go cheap.”

“I’m glad you remembered the photographs.”

Sarah opened the
Herald Examiner
and I began on the first poem:

THE POET

they slay the poet

they burn the poet

they ignore the poet

they hate the poet

but the moon knows

the poet

and the prostitutes

know

the agony of the

poet

and they give it to him

for free

they lick the hair

of his balls in

holy prayer

the poet will not die

even in death

he sits inside the

moon

and gives the finger

to the

universe!

THE POET AT PLAY:

I suck her strawberry

tits.

I suck the hairs of

her ass.

I eat her vanilla

come.

at dawn she sucks

my toes.

I sneeze through my

ass.

she laughs.

we

sleep.

I didn’t feel inclined to read the remainder of the manuscript. I knew what the remaining poems would be about: THE POET.

Sarah looked up from the
Herald Examiner
.

“Somebody send you some more poems to read?”

“Yes, it happens 3 or 4 times a month.”

“You’re not a publisher. Why do they do it?”

“It’s a hate-love relationship they feel toward me.”

“How are his poems?”

“He’s not as good as he thinks he is, but then most of us feel that way.”

“You get poems from Women too, right?”

“Yeah. Some of them with nude photos and come-ons. They think I can get them published. Or they want a blurb for the cover of some small press book.”

“Those dirty cunts!”

“Right!”

We clicked our glasses, drained them, then I poured two more.

I opened the other envelope. It was from Vin Marbad:

ARTICLES OF INCORPORATION

I began reading. The jargon was Corporate Lawyer. I tried to break it down into plain English and a part I disliked immediately said:

If the President of the Corporation is judged insane by a court-appointed psychiatrist the other members of said Corporation may by a majority vote divide all the assets of said Corporation equally among themselves.

I took my pen and crossed this passage out with heavy dark lines. Then I poured another drink after emptying my glass and read on:

If the President of said Corporation is judged incapable to carry out his duties because of the use of drugs or intoxicating beverages, or if he is deemed sexually overactive detrimental to the common good of Society or the Corporation, then after a majority vote of said members, the President of said Corporation will be placed in a role of diminished authority and all assets of said Corporation will be divided equally among the remaining members.

I took my pen and heavily marked out this section. Then read further:

If the President of the Corporation is judged senile...

I crossed out this passage.

If the President of the Corporation is addicted to gambling...

Cross out.

The President of the Corporation is allowed one vote equal to the vote of each member, all votes counting the same...

Cross out.

I read on and on. It was horrifying, it seemed barbaric. It was terrifying. I crossed out passage after passage. There must have been 17 or 18 pages. When I finished, the pages were a mass of black lines.

Sarah brought another bottle. I pushed the pages away.

“God Almighty, God Almighty, this has made me sick! This is wretched and pitiful stuff! I can’t believe it!”