she wrote me for years.
“I’m drinking wine in the kitchen.
it’s raining outside. the children
are in school.”
she was an average citizen
worried about her soul, her typewriter
and her
underground poetry reputation.
she wrote fairly well and with honesty
but only long after others had
broken the road ahead.
she’d phone me drunk at 2 a.m.
at 3 a.m.
while her husband slept.
“it’s good to hear your voice,” she’d
say.
“it’s good to hear your voice too,” I’d
say.
what the hell, you
know.
she finally came down. I think it had
something to do with
The Chapparal Poets Society of California.
they had to elect officers. she phoned me
from their hotel.
“I’m here,” she said, “we’re going to elect
officers.”
“o.k., fine,” I said, “get some good ones.”
I hung up.
the phone rang again.
“hey, don’t you want to see me?”
“sure,” I said, “what’s the address?”
after she said goodbye I jacked-off
changed my stockings
drank a half bottle of wine and
drove on out.
they were all drunk and trying to
fuck each other.
I drove her back to my place.
she had on pink panties with
ribbons.
we drank some beer and
smoked and talked about
Ezra Pound, then we
slept.
it’s no longer clear to
me whether I drove her to
the airport or
not.
she still writes letters
and I answer each one
viciously
hoping to make her
stop.
someday she may luck into
fame like Erica
Jong. (her face is not as good
but her body is better)
and I’ll think,
my God, what have I done?
I blew it.
or rather: I didn’t blow
it.
meanwhile I have her box number
and I’d better inform her
that my second novel will be out
in September.
that ought to keep her nipples hard
while I consider the possibility of
Francine du Plessix Gray.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
