Come On In Read Online Free PDF Page B

whiskey back to the bed, sat down,
    lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the
    boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat
    and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and
    forth. 

the copulation blues
    fuck
    the phone rings once
    stops
    fuck
    I am on top
    we roll off to the side
    fuck
    she throws one leg over
    and plays with her clit
    while I harpoon her
    fuck
    the dog scratches on the door
    won’t stop
    I get up and let him in
    then it’s time to
    suck
    she’s got it in her mouth
    not the dog
    me
    suck suck
    the doorbell rings
    a man selling mops made by the blind
    we buy a mop for eleven dollars with a little gadget
    that squeezes out the water
    fuck
    now it’s up again
    I’m on top again
    the phone rings
    a girlfriend of hers from Stockton
    they talk for ten minutes
    finish
    I am reading the sports section when
    she comes back with a bowl of grapes and
    I hand her the woman’s page
    no fuck. 

the faithful wife
    she was a married woman
    and she wrote sad
    and futile poems
    about her married life.
    her many letters to me
    were the same: sad
    and repetitive and
    futile. 
    we exchanged letters for
    some years.
    I was depressed and suicidal
    and had had nothing but
    bad luck
    with women
    so I continued to write
    her
    thinking, well, maybe
    this way
    no ill will come to
    either one of us. 
    but
    one night suddenly
    she was in town, she
    phoned me:
    “I’m at a meeting of
    The Chaparral Poets of
    California!” 
    “o.k.,” I said, “good
    luck.” 

    “I mean,” she asked,
    “don’t you want to
    see me?”
    “oh, yeah …” 
    she told me she would be
    waiting at a certain bar
    in Pasadena. 
    I had half a glass of
    whiskey, 2 cans of beer
    and
    set out. 
    I found the bar, went
    in.
    there she was (she had
    sent photos) the little
    housewife giddy on
    martinis.
    I sat down beside
    her. 
    “oh my god,” she said, “it’s you !
    I just can’t believe it!” 
    I ordered a couple of drinks from
    the barkeep. 
    she kissed me right there, tongue
    and all. 

    we had a couple more drinks
    then got into my car
    and with her
    holding my cock
    I drove the freeway
    back to my place
    where I sat her down.
    she began talking about
    poetry
    but I got her back
    into the bedroom
    got her down onto the bed
    and stripped down
    except for the
    panties.
    I had never seen
    such a
    beautiful body. 
    I began to slip the
    panties off but she
    said, “no, no, I can TELL
    you’re very POTENT, you’ll make
    me PREGNANT!”
    “well,” I said, “what the hell!” 
    I rolled over then and went to
    sleep. 

    the next morning
    I drove her back to her
    Chaparral Poets of
    California. 
    as the weeks and months
    went on
    her letters kept arriving.
    I answered some, then
    stopped. 
    but her letters kept coming.
    there wasn’t much news
    but many photos: photos of
    her children, photos of her,
    there was one photo of her
    sitting alone on a rock
    by the seashore. 
    then the letters were fewer and
    fewer and then they stopped. 
    add some years
    some other women
    many changes of address
    and one day
    a new letter found
    its way to
    me: 

    the children were grown
    and gone.
    her husband had lost his
    part of the business, his
    partners had knifed
    him,
    they were going to have to
    sell the house. 
    I answered that
    letter. 
    two or three weeks
    passed.
    her next letter said
    that there was a divorce and
    it was final.
    she enclosed a photo.
    I didn’t know who it
    was at first.
    182 pounds. she said
    she’d been living on
    submarine sandwiches and
    refried beans and was
    looking for a job.
    never had a job.
    she could only type
    23 w.p.m.
    she enclosed a small
    chapbook of her poems
    inscribed “Love.” 

    I should have fucked her that
    long-ago night.
    I should have been a
    dog. 
    it would have been one good
    night for each of us, especially
    for me
    stuck between suicide and
    insanity
    in bed with the beautiful
    housewife.
    I had never seen a body like
    hers before. 
    now