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
