Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories

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
    0 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
    1 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
    LOOKING FOR WORK
    Tve 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.
    CHEERS
    Vodka chased with coffee. Each morning I hang the sign on the door
    OUT TO LUNCH
    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.
    ROGUE RIVER JET-BOAT TRIP, GOLD BEACH, OREGON, JULY 4,1977
    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.
    TWO 0
    YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS (an evening with Charles Bukowski)
    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