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On Poetry Writing
and Love Affairs

When what was once something
to help fill up the
night
becomes something you
wake up to, spend most
of the day with,
the best way to come
out of it is to remember
the consequences
of not paying the bills.

 

I'm on a mission from God

morning (1:00 p.m.),
8 days now
without a shave.
i can't afford much, not even
razor blades
because, you see, i'm a
poet, and only a certain kind of
poet
gets paid.

i slip into a
towel and my
3-year-old keds, hike
out to the mailbox,
look inside:
The Great American Poetry Review
sits there with
nothing else.

i don't know why it's there because
only good poets, ones who get
paid, make it
into GAPR.

perhaps it's a sign from God. something
tells me to open it
up:

"...another wind laps at the edges
of my memory..."

"...the white of an eye turned up
into blue folds of light..."

"...rushing waters carry melted dust
through us..."

i close it...yes,
the message is
coming through:
He's telling me
i should grow a beard...
and learn to love
my holy
tennis shoes.

 

Two poets

Jan came into the room, sat down in the rusted
lawn chair, opened a bottle of cola and pushed her
feet up onto the table. It was the kitchen
table, and the living room
table, and the television
table.

Jan and Harry had, in short, just one other
piece of furniture:
the mattress.

“Shit,” Jan said, taking a gulp
of coke.

“What's wrong, Jan,” Harry said—
“just the usual?”

“Uh uh,” she said. “This time it's worse.
This time I've had it, and I may never go back.”

“Jan,” Harry said, “some day we're both going to die,
and if we die the usual way, like everybody else, we'll
most likely be apart when it happens, maybe one of us
at work while the other one kicks off. Anyway, we haven't
worked it out the usual way so far; why shouldn't we die
together? What I'm saying is, quit the damn job; let's starve
together or take enough drugs together so that we both
kick off.”

“I don't know if I want to kick off, though,” Jan said.
“Why can't you get a job for awhile and let me stay home
and write the poems?”

“I'm afraid it's too late for that,” said Harry.
“I've been writing the poems so long now that all I can
think of is death, and you know it never works
to talk about death during a job interview.”

“But you don't have to talk about death
during the interview,” she said.

“Jan,” Harry said, lowering his voice,
“be serious. All the employers will know that I'm faking it
if I don't talk about death. They've all read my poetry
by now.”

“You have flipped out,” Jan said. “You think anybody reads
those dumb little xeroxed rags that publish your shit...?”

“Jan, don't call my poetry shit,” Harry said flatly.
“Before you started working full-time you had more respect
for my works.”

“Well, I was either naive then or your works have deteriorated
in quality quite a bit," Jan said. “I mean,
your poems are nothing but prose cut up into lines
now.”

“Jan,” Harry said, “I think this discussion is
getting us nowhere.”

“Oh, just great,” she said. “What then? I'll tell you
what. Jan keeps working and you keep on writing your shit
and sending it off to those dumb fucking little
magazines. Jan pays the bills and you continue paying for
a cup of coffee for yourself once every week with those
fifty-cent checks you get in the mail.
Is that it?"

“Jan, I asked you not to call my poems shit.”

“Oh, my god, you conceited bastard—you don't even respond
anymore to my complaints. All you can talk about is your dumb,
stupid SHIT—and DEATH—you and your stupid SHIT about
DEATH! I can't take it anymore!”

“Okay, look,” said Harry. “You've had a rough day.
Why don't we eat some dinner and talk about this
when we're both in a better mood?”

“SHIT and DEATH,” she went on. “That's all you are:
SHIT and DEATH. I HATE your SHIT and I HATE your DEATH!
If you don't want to change things, then you can just
EAT your SHIT and DIE!”

Harry got up from the kitchen table, walked into the
bathroom, and shut the door.
He stayed in there, no noise,
five, ten, fifteen minutes.

Jan listened, telling herself she didn't
care.

A half an hour passed, no sound from within.

Finally Jan got up, walked to the bathroom door. “Harry, look,
you okay in there?”

“I'm okay,” said Harry.

Jan could tell he had been crying.

“Just leave me alone a little while longer. I've been trying
to write a poem. I don't think I can
anymore.”

“Look,” Jan said, “why don't you take a laxative.
Something's bound to come out in a couple of hours.”

“Good idea,” Harry said. “Does this mean
you aren't mad anymore?”

“Well,” Jan said, “we'll have to
talk about this awhile.”
“I understand,” said Harry.

Jan heard Harry unlock the door, and then it opened.
Harry stood there, face red from crying, pants bunched up
around his ankles, penis shriveled and
pitiful-looking.

Jan kissed him on the forehead.

“You shit,” she said, a little tear forming at the edge
of her eye, “someday you'll be the death of me.”

“Now you're talking,” Harry said.

Harry pulled up his pants with one hand, and they
walked over to the mattress, turned on the small
black-and-white television with a coat hanger for an antenna,
lay in each other's arms,
and fell asleep.

 

Thanks, Doug.