All of Us (5 page)

Twenty-eight, hairy belly hanging out

of my undershirt (exempt)

I lie here on my side

on the couch (exempt)

and listen to the strange sound

of my wife’s pleasant voice (also exempt).

We are new arrivals

to these small pleasures.

Forgive me (I pray the Court)

that we have been improvident.

Today, my heart, like the front door,

stands open for the first time in months.

Then Pancho Villa came to town,

hanged the mayor

and summoned the old and infirm

Count Vronsky to supper.

Pancho introduced his new girl friend,

along with her husband in his white apron,

showed Vronsky his pistol,

then asked the Count to tell him

about his unhappy exile in Mexico.

Later, the talk was of women and horses.

Both were experts.

The girl friend giggled

and fussed with the pearl buttons

on Pancho’s shirt until,

promptly at midnight, Pancho went to sleep

with his head on the table.

The husband crossed himself

and left the house holding his boots

without so much as a sign

to his wife or Vronsky.

That anonymous husband, barefooted,

humiliated, trying to save his life, he

is the hero of this poem.

The paperboy shakes me awake. “I have been dreaming you’d come,”

I tell him, rising from the bed. He is accompanied

by a giant Negro from the university who seems

itching to get his hands on me. I stall for time.

Sweat runs off our faces; we stand waiting.

I do not offer them chairs and no one speaks.

It is only later, after they’ve gone,

I realize they have delivered a letter.

It’s a letter from my wife. “What are you doing

there?” my wife asks. “Are you drinking?”

I study the postmark for hours. Then it, too, begins to fade.

I hope someday to forget all this.

That painting next to the brocaded drapery

is a Delacroix. This is called a divan

not a davenport; this item is a settee.

Notice the ornate legs.

Put on your tarboosh. Smell the burnt cork

under your eyes. Adjust your tunic, so.

Now the red cummerbund and Paris; April 1934.

A black Citröen waits at the curb.

The street lamps are lit.

Give the driver the address, but tell him

not to hurry, that you have all night.

When you get there, drink, make love,

do the shimmy and the beguine.

And when the sun comes up over the Quarter

next morning and that pretty woman

you’ve had and had all night

now wants to go home with you,

be tender with her, don’t do anything

you’ll be sorry for later. Bring her home

with you in the Citroën, let her sleep

in a proper bed. Let her

fall in love with you and you

with her and then … something: alcohol,

a problem with alcohol, always alcohol —

what you’ve really done

and to someone else, the one

you meant to love from the start.

It’s afternoon, August, sun striking

the hood of a dusty Ford

parked on your driveway in San Jose.

In the front seat a woman

who is covering her eyes and listening

to an old song on the radio.

You stand in the doorway and watch.

You hear the song. And it is long ago.

You look for it with the sun in your face.

But you don’t remember.

You honestly don’t remember.

How much do writers make? she said

first off

she’d never met a writer

before

Not much I said

they have to do other things as well

Like what? she said

Like working in mills I said

sweeping floors teaching school

picking fruit

whatnot

all kinds of things I said

In my country she said

someone who has been to college

would never sweep floors

Well that’s just when they’re starting out I said

all writers make lots of money

Write me a poem she said

a love poem

All poems are love poems I said

I don’t understand she said

It’s hard to explain I said

Write it for me now she said

All right I said

a napkin/a pencil

for Semra I wrote

Not now silly she said

nibbling my shoulder

I just wanted to see

Later? I said

putting my hand on her thigh

Later she said

O Semra Semra

Next to Paris she said

Istanbul is the loveliest city

Have you read Omar Khayyam? she said

Yes yes I said

a loaf of bread a flask of wine

I know Omar backwards

& forwards

Kahlil Gibran? she said

Who? I said

Gibran she said

Not exactly I said

What do you think of the military? she said

have you been in the military?

No I said

I don’t think much of the military

Why not? she said

goddamn don’t you think men

should go in the military?

Well of course I said

they should

I lived with a man once she said

a real man a captain

in the army

but he was killed

Well hell I said

looking around for a saber

drunk as a post

damn their eyes retreat hell

I just got here

the teapot flying across the table

I’m sorry I said

to the teapot

Semra I mean

Hell she said

I don’t know why the hell

I let you pick me up

I’ve always wanted brook trout

for breakfast.

Suddenly, I find a new path

to the waterfall.

I begin to hurry.

Wake up,

my wife says,

you’re dreaming.

But when I try to rise,

the house tilts.

Who’s dreaming?

It’s noon, she says.

My new shoes wait by the door.

They are gleaming.

Vodka chased with coffee. Each morning

I hang the sign on the door:

but no one pays attention; my friends

look at the sign and

sometimes leave little notes,

or else they call—
Come out and play
,

Ray-mond.

Once my son, that bastard,

slipped in and left me a colored egg

and a walking stick.

I think he drank some of my vodka.

And last week my wife dropped by

with a can of beef soup

and a carton of tears.

She drank some of my vodka, too, I think,

then left hurriedly in a strange car

with a man I’d never seen before.

They don’t understand; I’m fine,

just fine where I am, for any day now

I shall be, I shall be, I shall
be…

I intend to take all the time in this world,

consider everything, even miracles,

yet remain on guard, ever

more careful, more watchful,

against those who would sin against me,

against those who would steal vodka,

against those who would do me harm.

They promised an unforgettable trip,

deer, marten, osprey, the site

of the Mick Smith massacre —

a man who slaughtered his family,

who burnt his house down around his ears —

a fried chicken dinner.

I am not drinking. For this

you have put on your wedding ring and driven

500 miles to see for yourself.

This light dazzles. I fill my lungs

as if these last years

were nothing, a little overnight portage.

We sit in the bow of the jet-boat

and you make small talk with the guide.

He asks where we’re from, but seeing

our confusion, becomes

confused himself and tells us

he has a glass eye and we

should try to guess which is which.

His good eye, the left, is brown, is

steady of purpose, and doesn’t

miss a thing. Not long past

I would have snagged it out

just for its warmth, youth, and purpose,

and because it lingers on your breasts.

Now, I no longer know what’s mine, what

isn’t. I no longer know anything except

I am not drinking—though I’m still weak

and sick from it. The engine starts.

The guide attends the wheel.

Spray rises and falls on all sides

as we head upriver.

You don’t know what love is Bukowski said

I’m 51 years old look at me

I’m in love with this young broad

I got it bad but she’s hung up too

so it’s all right man that’s the way it should be

I get in their blood and they can’t get me out

They try everything to get away from me

but they all come back in the end

They all came back to me except

the one I planted

I cried over that one

but I cried easy in those days

Don’t let me get onto the hard stuff man

I get mean then

I could sit here and drink beer

with you hippies all night

I could drink ten quarts of this beer

and nothing it’s like water

But let me get onto the hard stuff

and I’ll start throwing people out windows

I’ll throw anybody out the window

I’ve done it

But you don’t know what love is

You don’t know because you’ve never

been in love it’s that simple

I got this young broad see she’s beautiful

She calls me Bukowski

Bukowski she says in this little voice

and I say What

But you don’t know what love is

I’m telling you what it is

but you aren’t listening

There isn’t one of you in this room

would recognize love if it stepped up

and buggered you in the ass

I used to think poetry readings were a copout

Look I’m 51 years old and I’ve been around

I
know
they’re a copout

but I said to myself Bukowski

starving is even more of a copout

So there you are and nothing is like it should be

That fellow what’s his name Galway Kinnell

I saw his picture in a magazine

He has a handsome mug on him

but he’s a
teacher

Christ can you imagine

But then you’re teachers too

here I am insulting you already

No I haven’t heard of him

or him either

They’re all termites

Maybe it’s ego I don’t read much anymore

but these people who build

reputations on five or six books

termites

Bukowski she says

Why do you listen to classical music all day

Can’t you hear her saying that

Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day

That surprises you doesn’t it

You wouldn’t think a crude bastard like me

could listen to classical music all day

Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann

Shit I couldn’t write up here

Too quiet up here too many trees

I like the city that’s the place for me

I put on my classical music each morning

and sit down in front of my typewriter

I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see

and I say Bukowski you’re a lucky man

Bukowski you’ve gone through it all

and you’re a lucky man

and the blue smoke drifts across the table

and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue

and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk

and I puff on the cigar like this

and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this

and take a deep breath

and I begin to write

Bukowski this is the life I say

it’s good to be poor it’s good to have hemorrhoids

it’s good to be in love

But you don’t know what it’s like

You don’t know what it’s like to be in love

If you could see her you’d know what I mean

She thought I’d come up here and get laid

She just knew it

She told me she knew it

Shit I’m 51 years old and she’s 25

and we’re in love and she’s jealous

Jesus it’s beautiful

she said she’d claw my eyes out if I came up here and got laid

Now that’s love for you

What do any of you know about it

Let me tell you something

I’ve met men in jail who had more style

than the people who hang around colleges

and go to poetry readings

They’re bloodsuckers who come to see

if the poet’s socks are dirty

or if he smells under the arms

Believe me I won’t disappoint em

But I want you to remember this

there’s only one poet in this room tonight

only one poet in this town tonight

maybe only one real poet in this country tonight

and that’s me

What do any of you know about life

What do any of you know about anything

Which of you here has been fired from a job

or else has beaten up your broad

or else has been beaten up by your broad

I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times

They’d fire me then hire me back again

I was a stockboy for them when I was 35

and then got canned for stealing cookies

I know what’s it like I’ve been there

I’m 51 years old now and I’m in love

This little broad she says

Bukowski

and I say What and she says

I think you’re full of shit

and I say baby you understand me

She’s the only broad in the world

man or woman

I’d take that from

But you don’t know what love is

They all came back to me in the end too

every one of em came back

except that one I told you about

the one I planted

We were together seven years

We used to drink a lot

I see a couple of typers in this room but

I don’t see any poets

I’m not surprised

You have to have been in love to write poetry

and you don’t know what it is to be in love

that’s your trouble

Give me some of that stuff

That’s right no ice good

That’s good that’s just fine

So let’s get this show on the road

I know what I said but I’ll have just one

That tastes good

Okay then let’s go let’s get this over with

only afterwards don’t anyone stand close

to an open window