during his Hollywood period.”
“all right,” I said and we got into his
car and he drove me there and pointed
it out:
“Fitzgerald lived there.”
“all right,” I said and then he drove us
back for more coffee.
Tom was truly excited about these
literary figures of the past.
I was too, to an extent,
but as Tom talked on and on about
them
and the coffees continued unabated
my interest began to wane, more than
wane.
I began to want to get rid of
Tom.
it was easy.
one day I wrote a poem about Tom
and it was published and he read
it
and after that
we enjoyed no more coffees
together.
Tom had been working on a
biography of me
and that ended that.
then another writer came along
and he drank my wine
and didn’t talk about Hemingway,
Fitzgerald, Faulkner, etc.,
he talked about himself
and ended up writing a not-very-
satisfactory biography
of me.
I should have stuck with Tom.
no, I should have gotten rid of
both of them.
which is exactly what I have
done.
my system is always the same:
keep it loose
write a great number of
poems
try with all your
heart and
don’t worry about the
bad
ones.
keep it going
keep it
hot
forget about immortality
if you ever
remembered
it.
the sound of this machine is
good.
much paper
more desire.
just
hammer away and wait for lady
luck.
what a
bargain.
hunched over this white sheet of paper
at 4 in the afternoon. I
received a letter from a young poet this morning
informing me that I was one of the most
important writers of the last
200 years.
well, now, one can’t believe that
especially if one has felt as I have
this past month,
walking about,
thinking,
surely I am going crazy,
and then thinking,
I can’t write
anymore.
and then I remember the factories,
the production lines,
the warehouses,
the time clocks,
overtime and layoffs
and flirtations with the Mexican girls
on the assembly line;
each day everything was carefully planned,
there was always something to do,
there was more than enough to do,
and if you didn’t keep up,
if you weren’t clever and swift and
obedient
you were out with the sparrows and
the bums.
writing’s different, you’re floating out there in the
white air, you’re hanging from the high-wire,
you’re sitting up in a tree and they’re working at
the trunk with a power
saw …
there’s no silk scarf about one’s neck,
no
