New Poems Book Three Read Online Free PDF

wrote:
    I’m not going to do the obvious and
    throw in a photo
    but don’t worry
    I’ve got a BODY
    and the face
    is not so bad
    either.
    anyhow, I really admire
    your books although
    I just discovered them
    recently.
    you see I am
    only 18 years old but
    I’d like to be your
    secretary
    kind of keep house for you
    answer the phone
    all that
    and just room and board
    would do—
    no salary
    and
    I wouldn’t ask you
    for sex
    unless you asked me
    first …
    you can be sure
    I tossed that letter
    into the
    trash can
    right away.

WHAT BOTHERS THEM MOST
    Sandra used to phone me almost
    nightly.
    “what are you doing?”
    “nothing.”
    “you mean, you aren’t
with
    anybody yet?”
    “no.”
    “why not?”
    “who needs it?”
    (I hang up)
    they simply never understand,
    do they,
    that sometimes solitude is
    one of the most beautiful things
    on earth?
    (then the phone rings again,
    a few nights later)
    “well, are you
with
anybody yet?”
    “no.”
    “why don’t you ask me if I’m
    with somebody?”
    “are you with somebody?”
    “not now, but I’ve been going out
    with Tim.”
    “Tim’s a good guy, tell him
    I said ‘hello’.”
    (I hang up)
    I found my nights to be perfectly
    pleasant and the day as pleasant
    too.
    I typed and laughed my ass
    off
    then strapped it back on and
    typed some
    more.
    one night
    while I was
    typing and
    laughing my ass off
    I heard high heels
    coming
    up the walk.
    then there was only silence
    so I took a hit of my
    drink and typed
    some more.
    suddenly there was a
    crash and
    the breaking of
    glass
    and
    a large rock
    rolled
    across the rug
    and stopped
    just next to
    where I was
    sitting.
    I heard high heels
    running back
    down the walk,
    then
    the sound
    of a car
    starting,
    then
    driving off with
    a
    roar.
    a pane of glass was
    missing
    from the
    front door.
    Sandra phoned
    two nights later.
    “how are you doing?”
    “fine.”
    “why don’t you ask me
    how
I’m
    doing?”
    “o.k., all right, how
    are
you
    doing?”
    “YOU ROTTEN SON OF
    A BITCH !” she
    screamed and
    hung up.
    however
    this time
    there was somebody
    there with me.
    “who was that?”
    she asked.
    “a voice from the
    past.”
    “oh, well,
    may we continue with
    our
    interview?
    what is the principal
    inspiration for your
    poetry?”
    “fucking.”
    “
what
?”
    “ FUCKING ,” I repeated
    loudly,
    then walked over
    and
    refilled her shaking
    drink.

INTO THE WASTEBASKET
    my father liked to pretend he
    would some day be wealthy,
    he always voted Republican
    and he told me that
    if I worked hard
    every day of my life that
    I would be amply
    rewarded.
    on those occasions
    when my father
had
a
    job he worked hard, he
    worked so hard that nobody
    could stand him.
    “what’s the matter with that
    man? is he crazy?”
    my father was a sweating
    red-faced
    angry
    man
    and it seemed that the
    harder he tried
    the poorer he
    became.
    his blood pressure
    rose
    and his heartbeat was
    irregular.
    he smoked Camels and
    Pall Malls and
    half-full packs were scattered
    everywhere.
    he was asleep by
    8 p.m. and up at
    5 a.m. and
    he tended to scream at and
    beat his wife and
    child.
    he died early.
    and after his funeral
    I sat in the bedroom of his empty
    house
    smoking his last pack of
    Pall Malls.
    he believed that there was
    only one formula, one way:
    his.
    it wasn’t shameful for him to
    die, it was his unbending attitude
    toward life
    that bothered me
    and I spoke to him
    about it once
    and told him
    that life was just
    rather sad and
    empty
    and all we could hope
    for
    was to enjoy a few moments
    of peace and quiet
    amidst the
    turmoil.
    “you just sit on your
    ass,” he replied, “you and
    your mouth!
    well,
I
say the answer is
    ‘a good day’s
    work for a good day’s
    pay!’”
    come to think of it,
    if I was unhappy
    it wasn’t completely
    my father’s fault
    and after I smoked the last
    Pall Mall cigarette
    in that last pack
    I threw it away
    and then
    he too was