A Random House Trade Paperback Original

Preface, drawings, and compilation copyright © 2003 by Norman Mailer

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House Trade Paperbacks, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

RANDOM HOUSE TRADE PAPERBACKS and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

The poems in this work were originally published in Cannibals and Christians (New York: The Dial Press, 1966), copyright © 1965 by Norman Mailer, and in Deaths for the Ladies (and other disasters) (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1962), copyright © 1962 by Norman Mailer.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Time magazine for permission to reprint excerpts from “Review of ‘Deaths for the Ladies’ ” from Time magazine, March 30, 1962, copyright © 1962 by Time, Inc. Reprinted by permission.

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Mailer, Norman.

Modest gifts : poems and drawings / by Norman Mailer.

p.   cm.

ISBN 0-8129-7237-6

I. Title.

PS3525.A4152A6 2003

811’.54—dc22     2003058552

Random House website address: www.atrandom.com

ISBN 978-0-8129-7237-5

eBook ISBN 978-0-8129-8971-7

v4.1

a

Well, in fact I do know. It is to warn the buyer. For the title is accurate—the gifts you will purchase are modest. William Merrill once wrote that a poem which was too easy to read was without value. “Difficult surfaces [can work] through to the poem’s emotional core.”

These pieces, for the most part, will be comprehensible on first approach. Some barely qualify as poems. They are snippets of prose called short hairs, there to shift your mood a hair’s width. Perhaps one element of a good poem is its power to succeed in altering a reader’s mood, but I will make no such claim for most of these inclusions, and something of the same can be said of the drawings. Is one to call them caricatures, cartoons, squibbles, or doodles? At best, they are line drawings—shading is beyond my means. If I now combine these line drawings with the short hairs, it is to offer the reader an easy pleasure. My serious work, such as it is, does not always accomplish this. Nor does it always want to. I belong to that dwindling group of novelists who wish to make a demand on their audience. I want the reader to owe a little more to the work than some passing gratitude for the mild enlivening of his or her leisure time. My mind was shaped at an early age, after all, by the great Russian novelists with their implicit expectation that you, the reader, are there to suffer with the writer. Why? For a huge reason—to partake of the ongoing quest to deepen our comprehension of life and eternity, as if—for fact!—life and eternity cannot survive without such a quest.

I still believe this. But by the age of eighty, tolerance insists on seeping into dedication. Casual pleasures become more meaningful even as lively pleasures sleep, and a few pains turn chronic. So, amusement becomes more of a virtue in itself. I now like to think that a limited ability to draw when coupled with a merry pretension to write poetry can turn sometimes into more than the sum of its parts, even as a minus times a minus will produce a plus. In mathematics, that always operates. In art, it can happen now and again. Obviously, I hope this is such an occasion.

I am not, however, being altogether candid. There are a few good poems and a few good drawings here. Which ones they may be, I keep to myself. My real pleasure will come if twenty different candidates are nominated by a score of men and women.

Here, I must offer a further confession. I knew this unashamedly self-serving attitude would have to disclose itself—modesty (at least for me) is too harsh a stricture to maintain all the way through two pages of a preface.

One more note:

A few poems were revised for this edition, but most were written in the early Sixties and published in a book called Deaths for the Ladies (and other disasters). The rest appeared by 1965 in Cannibals and Christians. Most of the drawings were done, however, in recent years. Nonetheless, the sketches are not all that removed from the tone of the short hairs, even if my ongoing mood in those years when the poems were written was considerably more intense. So I think it’s appropriate to include an appendix in this book. It is the introduction I wrote for a mass-market paperback edition of Deaths for the Ladies, which came out almost ten years after the first publication in 1962, and it will offer a subtext to those readers who find themselves somewhat intrigued by what follows.

I

Cocktail Party

A. Voices

I

was

hysterical

stated

the girl

        I

dropped

my

   god

damned con

tact lens

   down

   the drain

Then

this

creep

called at four

        A.M.

Hel

        lo Kook

                     he said

Guess what:

                     I just

                     found

                     your

                     contact

                     lens.

How can you

    say

you’re

  only

  three-quarters

        a man,

why you’re

      completely

      a man

      said the

        lady

        in a

        three-quarter voice.

I still

love

him

deeply

she said

deeply

out of her

double

chin.

The

cigarette

smoker

said

I’d

rather

waste it

than give

it

away

America should have

        two churches

        one for people

            who smoke

    and one for those

            who don’t

I think

I’ll switch

from ginger ale

    now

to a

nice

    glass

    of

    soda.

Drinker

with a

problem said:

I’ll drink

to that.

Cocktail Party

B. Lingerers, Laggards & Blackguards

I don’t mind

  a party that

      gets

    a little rough

  but did you

    have to throw

          up

          in my foyer?

Despair never

    said the

     drunk,

I’ll pick

        it up

    I’ll really

    pick it up

    because I don’t

    believe

    in leaving

    my leavings

    at a lady’s

        door

    when she’s a lady

        like you

        you crappy

        old

        unhappy

        bag of an armpit

          anyone ever

          say

          you’re beautiful

          said the drunk as he fell on his nose

          trying to kiss lady and her fortune.

II

Maladies of Centralists

She believed

    in the

    efficacy

    of patterns

So she worked

    on the

    Avenue

    of the

    Madison

        and

        sold

        glop

The steel

and

glass

of some womb

that

lacked

the love

to

give her eyes

This ill

  whose

first

symptom

 is

 a

 monotony

of nights

UNITED CITIZENS PROTEST

Gather

me

a

monotony

of

names

THE SUBURBAN ARTS

Putting up

  with

    something

    you don’t

           like

    and calling

    it charming

     spells

     age-in-the-face,

      dear,

       said

        the

       skin

       graft

       as it

       said

      hello

       and moved into its new home

                        on the neck

THERAPY

  People

      who

  despise

  themselves

    wear

    dingy

    under-

    garments

      said

      the

      psychiatrist

  flinging

the sorrows

    of his

    seed

      out, off, and away

            into a

            white

            linen

            hand-

            kerchief

            with a

            hand-

            rolled

            edge.

Repetition

    kills the

    soul

for its offers

    dull the

    hole

    of memory

where life

        was once

        a tree

        nestling the root

        with gyres

           of sky

        and

          midnight’s

          murmuring

          summer.

  A plague is

          coming

          named

              Virus Y S X

              still unsolved

              promises to be

                     proof

                     against

                     antibiotics

                     psychotherapy

                     Internet ventures

                     mega-vitamins

                     ATMs

                     celebrity diets

                     pundits

                     cell phones

                     foundations

                     cruise ships

                     rehab

                     spas

                     Viagra

                     anthrax

                     Botox

                     Prozac

                     breast enhancement

                     liposuction

                     insider trading

                     political correctness

                              and

                              even a good piece

                              of rare

When that unhappy day

        comes to America

        let Islam

        take over.

The best defense is

                infection.

As it grows,

    the flower

    breaks

    through the stone.

It has yet

    to prove

    itself

    against

    the clay.

Gray without grace

    day.

TOGETHERNESS

My flesh must smell like an old tire

my sex is bitter and gone

my days are leafless and all sleep

    said the housewife

    going to the specialist

one knows what kind

but in the waiting room

she was racked by a plague

from the pots of the American

    miasma—our magazines,

    and so lady murmured

                too quietly

even for her mind to hear:

Reader’s Digest, please save your soul

and leave mine free to contemplate

eternity which must be more

    than I glimpse for myself now

    an endless promenade

across a field of baked old beans

    a cataract of dishwater

    regurgitated by the memory

of champagne I never drank

    and kings I never kissed

COMMUTER POOL

Each time I think of some little thing

I can do to get ahead,

                      I feel as if

a foul fierce art from the nightmares

of constipation, the flaming waste of

stagnation

        (Chime! Chime! the Vowels!)

has forced its way

                    up up into my brain

and played the lyre from Hades’ heart.

So I say to myself (I am growing deaf,

my dear) I say to myself: Boy,

you are getting ready to trade

the possibilities of the future,

otherwise known as soul,

                        for the ego,

the beans and the booze

    Remember: that Guy died for us.

But oh those dreams and how they burn.

    oh those dreams and how they burn.

Heaven cannot have a bitch

so royal as the root of my sweet itch.

III

Levels of Procurement

SEX IN THE HIGH SCHOOLS

Johnny

  what

  can I do

  said the

  girl

I gotta pee

She was in a

  strange pad

  three hours long

Why just

come here,

princess,

  said

  Johnny

and I’ll lead you

to the throne

who serves as sink.

Oh, Johnny

  said the girl

  you’re funny.

NIGHT CLUB

The call girl

  walked along

  the bar

  escorted by

   a plump

    virile

    pomaded

    hip businessman,

    minor league Mafia,

  and behind them

    trailed a smell

    of stale

    sulphur.

    O sex

    you are dying

    I know

    but in

      whose name?

      and for what

            cause?

Do your duty

    said I

    to the beauty

  as she turned

    from love

    (the act)

    and sauntered

      down the

      hall

      to

      commune

      with porcelain,

      fluorescent light

and hound’s sigh

      of lavatory water

      languishing

        after the

        souls

    my beauty

        chose

        to taste

        and flush

        away.

Lie down with dogs

  you rise with

            figs

  said the lady

  who was the loveliest

    of all my pigs.

Call this poem

  the Market Place

    cried

    the red hair

        Negress

    who ball my ace.

Whores,

  I prate,

  make no ditties

    of my sores,

  for a pimp

    who shows no limp

    in the gait

        of his will

    has escaped

        all ill.

IV

The Mediocre

We live in a world filled with all the wonderful things

    which did not happen

    all the passion never born

    when the sperm sailed into the sheet

    and left a quiver of empty arrows

    (did your little womb go pitty pat pat

    when midnight passed and I wasn’t there?)

We walk in cities filled with second choice

you and me planned by calculation of the budget

    those neon signs cold compromise

    to cheat the savage dream of fire

    you do not control the flame

    until you put it under glass

    (all those lovely modern shacks

    fifty stories of steel and mass

    second choice in a new idea)

Is it better that prisons look like public schools

and airports shake their hips in plastic luxury?

    What a world of second choice besets the eye

    no wonder I am going blind says the Lord

    and oh that static in my ear

    (must everyone speak in an accent

    borrowed from another and all

    food die a second death?—freeze my juices

    seal my flesh.)

Devil torture me no longer, I will join

the vibration in the computer chip

    second choice of the wind when

    the spirits of the dead failed, you

    hear, to make us feel their hurt.

STATIC

Dah dit dit da dit dit dah

dah dah dit dit dah dah

dah dit dit dah dit dit dah

dah dah dit dit dah dah

Mentally cool and bright

Arms fly is the war song

Father of strong in your nave

Dum ditty, dum ditty, dum

    dah dah dit dah dit dit

Bold old gold is the grave

    which does not slay

    but reduces

    the best and worst

    to mediocre

    dit dit dah

    dah dah dit

    the mediocre

    Superhighways

    cut through

    profit and

    passion

    and so

    inhabit

    the moon

    before we’ve

    learned

    its mountain

                road

              which

              winds

                    in

                slow

            curves

              of the

                 root

            toward

            the ore

    and her nugget

SEMINARS

                        1.

A short hair is the chromosome of a short

story

said the sadist, an assistant protestant

professor

of creative composition. His words danced

like genes in the gism of a hate-filled lair.

It was the air before his face

down from the burning glass

of his spectacle lens

to the razor of his mouth

Kill talent by teaching it procedure

said the sphincter of his nostril.

Doctor Category, said the hair

within his nose, you stifle me now

But I will grow in your grave like ivy

entwining myself in the orbital

locket of your skull

For I, royal hair of the rebellion

am the last of a lover’s nerve

the poet lover who created you

old gray-haired sadistic dad

I am father of your categories

       on the short hair.

Said the assistant protestant professor:

kill me, artist, curl your hair

into the bone of my grave

but I love your work

                        2.

Forgive my passion for category

I must believe that God is a tidy man

besides I will go before you

there are machines to replace me

Univac and One-Hole-Trac

They will bring death to your nerve

deeper than I ever dreamed.

Upon one another we fell sobbing

before the bitch of ice.

on came her machine. Yes, it said,

your short hair used to be the

chromosome of the short story

Now it is the fiber in fiberglass,

I gave one cry back clear back to

Coleridge on his lonely alp

for the horror of the albatross

    was its malignant wings

Death we have betrayed your sting

and licked the long dry tongue of

intellection

        much too long

We will die from anemia of the soul

in some plentitude of electronics

            and her suburb

V

A One Night Stand

IN THE HALLWAY

My God,

  she said

I came

        in my

        hat

This time

      take your

          shoes off

              he said

My God,

he said

this time

I came

in my

hat

well,

take it

off

  she said,

I want

  to see

the baby

and how

  his hair

  will be.

You

    have

one

of

the

    greatest asses

in town

he said,

    Is

    it

extraordinary

    she

    asked?

No. It’s excellent. Please do

                        stop

EATING IN THE KITCHEN

Do you have

    a comb?

Use your

    fingers.

A LOGIC OF LOVE

Your eyes

    are beautiful

said my love.

Yes said I

    eyes of

    mine have

        seen your

        breast

        and so are

                beautiful

(but one’s heart

        was immersed

        in that

        calculus

    of the soul

    that measures

        the profit

        and cost

    of conversions

        from beauty

        to power)

Your eyes

    are beautiful

    said my love

    and have

          left

          me.

You’re not large enough

        for a whale

and much too fat

        to be a shark

                Porpoise

was her reply

Sleek pig

  thought the mind

  of my eye

Sleek pigs

        are porpoises

        said she

and began to cry.

IN THE MIRROR IS THE RECKONING

Midnight

    said

    the

    lipstick

your mascara

    is mud.

I know

    said the

    eyes

but he was

    so

    attractive

and he

ended

in the vast

    middle.

VI

Unhappy Marriage

  What’s

  he got?

  (made

    a little

    money

  Lost

    a little

    love)

Miami.

She says

these things

I drop

like dead

meat-balls.

I want to

be a

fine

woman

and a

great

mother

to my

children

and

oh yes

you

she said

He makes love

  like a little

pig’s tail

    thought she

 all tight

  kinky

   curly cue

and full of squeal

  why can’t he

go

dark and deep?

Cheap!

  beep beep a beep!

  went the tail

    of the pig

roar! went the

boar

  and with a crash

and a snore

he went dark

  and deep

  into himself

  and sleep.

HALLELUJAH!

Children

  who issue

    from

       a matrimony

       of the usual misery

       go forth

       into lives

which are best spent

       in sin

       said the Lord

VII

A Drunken Marriage

Look, she said,

  he carried

  her across

  the street and

  over the slush

why don’t you

  carry me?

Because you

  got the curse

  I got worse

  we been married

     ten years

  and when you’re

  drunk you say

     anything.

Whatever

dear Romeo

  said

  Juliet

  carrying

     me

  across the street.

THE GOOD LORS

The Good Lors

    gave me

    my

    pretty

    face

The Good Lors

    is full

    of air

like a polar bear

    with

    lollypop

    breeze,

    daddy.

why

why daddy

why is the sky blue?

child

  one would have

   to embrace

your formal

  Why

  with coronations

  of intelligence

  purer than

  the purest

  reason

of my

heart

Gin is not water

  but she is white

  She makes

  you very

    drunk

  like mommy-daddy-dolly

  used to be

  when she-he

  fall

  boom-boom

  off the wagon

daddy

RAINY AFTERNOON WITH THE WIFE

Wanted

without

wings

is stone

    dew

Gray

without

grace

    is

    day

    without

    prey

    you’re

    a king

    with

    feet

    of clay

No,

lass

I’m

a

mandarin

    and reached

for a

beer

first

of the

blow

Gray

without

grace,

day.

You can’t

have

a beer

Momma

says

no

By God

if I had a

momma

like

you

I’d

never

a

reached

the age

of six

Wanted

without

wings

is

stone

do

Gray

without

grace,

day.

Gray

without

grace.

BELLEVUE

yogurt

    mart

    church

    for

    art

blood

and

wood

is

bread

mother

menstrual

spike

and

mass

fetus

feathers

food

earning

butter

bone

and

break

fairies

father

flutes

homicide is hairy

morons murder mutes

    Royal

      is

      the

      rat who runs the race

You let everything stand

    until it’s knocked over

        and then

        you go over

        and write

        your own

          ruins

A WANDERING IN PROSE: FOR HEMINGWAY, NOVEMBER 1960

That first unmanageable cell to

stifle his existence arrived

on a morning when by

an extreme act of the will

he chose not to strike his

mother. Since this was

thirty-six hours after he

had stabbed his wife, and

his mother had come at a time

when he wished to see no one

in order to savor the woes

and pawed prides of his soul

(what a need for leisure

has the criminal heart), his

renunciation of violence

was civilized, too civilized

for his cells which proceeded

to revolt. But then it is

the thesis of this summary

that civilization spawns

its inner disease in every corner of

every church whose smell

is stale with the fatigues

of such devotion as lost its

memory on the long road

from ecstasy to

habit.

VIII

Drinking to Eternity

1.

Men

  who work

    at Time

  have a

    life expectancy

    which is

    not long

    said the

  young man

        from

  Newsweek

2.

Those

    who

  bat out

  the poop

      for

the other sheet

    don’t use up

    a thing

    in

    my scheme

    of space

said the

young blood

    from Yale

3.

But

in the

evenings

  they met

  and had

  beers

  together

  in Irish bars

  which looked

  the proper hair

  of fashion

  askew

  the type

4.

And as they drank

        into

        warm

        spring

        evenings

        the remembered musk

        of wood-smoke at dusk

            brought

            tenderness

                to

            liberty

            and irony

                to fate

            and they

                would

            chant

            a song

                    which went:

we

are

saving

our

  pennies

  to buy

a bond

  to aid

the drive

  of the United

Corporations of Community

who wish

to construct

a new

and improved

rest home

for the

pushers

on the

team

Boola-

  boola,

  boola-

boole.

1.

I’m rich

    said

    Irish

      derby

      slopping

        a drink

        to the

        floor

So I’ve always

     missed

     the pleasures

     of the poor.

Taste his spit!

    said the sawdust

    it’s a scandal

    and a shame

Naught but outer limbo

      said the roach

        on his way

        on his fraught-filled

    way to the door

    and toward the

          stair

          of his own.

2.

When he reached

        the cracked enamel

        in the kitchen

            of his pad

        he made a

            tour

        of quarters

            leaving

            molecules

            like pennies

            on the oil cloth

                of the

                poor—

        five molecules

                of scotch

                to every

                    plate

But the fumes had drunk

          his mind to stuff

          and roachie slept

          an emperor’s sleep

        dreaming of previous lives

          in derby hats

          when he had slopped

          the whiskey

          to the floor

        crying for the pleasures

          of the poor.

There’s one thing about you,

baby

  said Sir Cirrhosis,

of all the witches I’ve known

you’re the merriest

      and he died

                with style.

He died with style

    said the witch.

Yes,

    said the wind

    which rose from

    the gin

give him honor in Hell.

When I was

  your age

  twenty

    seven

  a dame

    could

    say

  I’ll put

    a curse

    on

     you.

On!

    I would say

    put a curse

        on me

    and wonder

         why

         my voice

         would break.

not you

but your cure

do I fear

Oh my love

for your cure

is a

  curse

upon me.

BAR TWISTS

I await her

  hot-breathed

  cigaretted

  garlicky

  version

  of all the lost days.

Cheer up

  whispers she

  (silently)

  hugging

  the other

  mugger.

Hurts me

  loathe chicks

  wife

  did me in

  I cannot

  forswear

  to gaze

  said the rage.

  Other drunks spit.

  Creepy girls giggle.

EPITAPH OF A RAIL

I used to drink

until six

    in the morning

so I could make

      dames

and now I drink

until six

    in the morning

watching other

      guys

    make dames.

    Eheu Fugaces.

Which means:

    Fuck aces!

    before the fleeting

    years go by

IX

Intermission

(During the Intermission There Will Be a Variety Show)

IAN FLEMING REVISITED

I had a spider once

and fed it neon tubes

until its web did gleam

like Las Vegas in the dawn

Roulette I used to call her

and the spider

drinking dew from grapefruit rind

to oil the knees

would smile and say:

every Roulette has her croupier.

SPORTS CHANNEL

Does the football team

    eat a lot?

Oh, I think so, Jim

    those football

    boys are

    are pretty big

    down there.

I sure remember

    when you

    two titans

    last met

    last November.

So do I.

    That fateful

    gray day

    in Green Bay.

    The weather was

    so bad we almost

    stayed in our

    hotel and ate each other.

    Our boys were

    keyed-up, I tell you.

Let’s

stamp out

bad dialogue.

That’s your problem

said the

toad.

ILLUMINATION

why do

  you

  always

  have

    to

    go off

    on a

      tangent

    said his mother.

why can’t you

      be

      nice

      and

      clean?

Look!

      Your handkerchief

        has a hole in it.

      Let me give you a

        new one.

Don’t you dare.

This way

  I can

  blow my nose

  and see what’s

  going on

    said Rimbaud

    at six.

the worst to be said

    about mothers

    is that they

    are prone

      to give

      kisses

    of con-

    grat-

    u-

    lation

that make you feel

    like a battleship

    on which someone

    is breaking

        a bottle

X

A. Interplanetary Is Trans-temporal

Of course,

        Mr. President,

                we

                are

                indeed hot

                        on

                        the track

                        of the

                        wonder

                        disease

                        and

                        are

                now feeding

                tetra-phenomenase

                its dose.

          Expect to save

                   it

                and all

                genome

                    compounds

                    if the

                Internet

                    does not collapse.

release

the anger

contained

in a fart

and there’ll

be power

enough

to reach

the moan

said the

physicist

as he

assumed

the throne

I mean

the moon.

B. In Which We Visit the Abductionally Challenged

XI

The Upper Classes

A. Transatlantic

The Prime Minister said:

  The higher a man rises

  the more he must

  dissemble

  until he

    can no longer

detect his own lies

     of course by then

    everything

    that seems good

  betrays me

  and everything

    which makes

      me warm

    tastes foul.

Money

    is a

    river

      flowing

      downhill

        over

        hills

          of

          character

            in the

                rich

REGISTERS

You must meet her.

She’s rather nice.

    she’s an

        absolute

        brigand

        who came out

        of a whorehouse

            in Baltimore.

Then she married

        a Jewish man

        from Macy’s

And then my father.

Now she has

        the most terrible

        dining room

        in New York.

It’s all gold.

Last year

        she finished

        decorating her house

        and charged

        one thousand dollars

        a plate

        to let people in.

No drinks.

Of course

        it was for

        a marvelous charity

            called Baskets

        For people

            without

            arms

            or legs.

        Isn’t that nice?

THE SOCIALITE’S SONG

I love Bobby, Bobby’s divine

   The Windsors came to

        see him

    and the Duke

        kept calling for

    Bye Bye Blackbird

    over and over again.

    It was a glorious night.

    I borrowed mascara

      from the Duchess

    before we were done

    we were crying

          so hard

        even the Duke.

How were we to know

    that the West

      Old World

    would shiver from blight

    and I would turn

        to a Prince

        of the Congo

    saying: embrace me

        darkest delight

    for in your firmament

    are stars.

Oh blackbird

    do not banish us

    banish not

        the lovers

        of Bobby

    when he sang

Blackbird

  bye-bye

    for can it be

  we heard

  the chord

  of the cannibal

    sharpening his knife

  on a blooded stone

  and wept for you

  as well as us.

Young winners

  make weak old losers

  said Bobby

removing his mask

to show

he was now

King

of our

Congo.

DEFINITION OF A LADY

She grasps

the root

while kissing

the bud

DEFINITION OF A HERO

He

thrives

in

dikes

Evil

    fingers

up

    and

down

    my

spine

  remind

        me

        that

        sex

        is

        not

        always

        divine.

        But

          sometimes

          it is

          with

          the most

          astonishing

          collection

          of

          horrible

          people.

ODE TO A LADY

Cold and swinish are your crafts

Mean and nasty, foul your arts

The spirit of a lover you would never kill

’Tis tastier far to deaden him.

  Yes, maggots are your pets

    and garlic your bouquet

Cold and swinish are your crafts

  a pestilence on me

For I have primed my iron

  in your lore and now

your faults revealed

  my eyes are blinded still

    by the image of a woman

  who is a virgin to my touch

  and never smiles the lover’s dirty grin

  of sweets we shared

    and share we will again

No, you are a work of art

  pristine, inviolate,

  shiver of midnight away

    from the touch of my tip all

    fingers stretched

You call to artists

  in other lands

  singing sweetly:

              Create me

            dear singing loin

            of some manly harp

            create me

            for I stifle where I stand

            and lady-like

            must drown the moment

            in the lake of much too many

            who leave me lazy like a snake

            So, create me, dear man,

            beyond my eye.

And I answer:

  snake and foulest bitch

  swine of a hundred feet

  I am your artist across the seas

    and love you, heart,

    because you are purer far

    than all your arts

      and all your swilling crafts,

    purer far because your heart

      dared to call

      when others—

      cats, grand dames,

      fraises fatales,

      and all the avaricious humps

      could think of nothing

        but flight from me.

      Come back,

       says piggy

      Can it be, poor harp

        Can it really be

      that you are the voice

                    across the sea?

    Yes, come back, says swine-song in your heart

      Come back, come back, come back

      For names you’ve called me

              far and wide

      Wine of a hundred feet

              Sweet lord you’re kind

      Yes come to me honey-bee

              and I will kill you.

      Over here my lad,

              God, you’re bad.

MARRIAGE À LA MODE

Cook for him?

Of course not.

We eat out

  all the time.

He’s gotten fat

He’s gotten

      very

      fat

      longing

    for good

        cooking

        said the Bitch

    in a voice

        of absolute

        tenderness for Mr. Bitch

        curious fellow

        her husband.

DEVILS

One of us

will

be

better

looking

when it’s

all

over.

The Upper Classes

B. Witches and Warlocks

The most

  eligible

  bachelor

  in London

  is a category

  conceived

  by presumptive

    witches

    weary

    of doing

    without

  their widow’s weeds—

  whispered

    the epigram

  to the boutonniere.

Go fix the flowers fuck-face

    was the King’s reply

I’m fast

  becoming

  a goose

    said the bitch

    blinking her eye

    to the beat

       of my

        intent

        light, deliberate and dry

I hate to have a ball

    which goes de trop said I

De trop, or not de trop

    dare your

    deliberations

    go deeper

       ducks.

    for love

       which is light

       and dry

       makes me think of money

        and her dirty bucks.

        So waltz me

    around again Willie

    hard dark and deep

    the keys to the dungeon

          are buried

    in mummie’s

    murderous

    keep.

You bruise

  my

  catatonia

  said

    the saint

    to the witch

  after he had

    fallen

    so far

  as to nod

    assent

    to a

    shitty suggestion

Is that all

  asked the witch

  accoutomé ma foi

    to eat the shit

    of the

    superior.

The saint forgave her

  and kissed a sore

  content with the

    notion

  it came from mort.

Deep in my dungeon

  I welcome you here

Deep in my dungeon

  I worship your fear

Deep in my dungeon

  I dwell.

I do not know

  if I wish you well.

Deep in my dungeon

  I welcome you here

Deep in my dungeon

  I worship your fear

Deep in my dungeon,

  I dwell

A bloody kiss

  from the wishing well.

THE RIDE OF THE SAD SAINT

                1.

The air was full of curses

  looking for no fight.

  The devils and the witches

    were all alone tonight

    save for a saint

        who was sad.

Mad, mad, you’re mad,

  cried a lad in the garb

        of a girl

  Saints are not sad

    but sadistic.

Cruelty is the kindest wound

  for dung, replied the saint.

  Go forth and sin

    in such a way

    you need not run

       at break of day.

Not one said yea.

  Still, the saint merely sighed

  he knew a saint

    must not aspire

  to the courage of a god

  nor try too long

  to bear such pain.

Besides, the saint was vain.

It was the drop life left

       in his humility

    in the couloirs of his humility

    in the catatonia of his senility

    in the crease of Carmen’s ear

    in the crease of Carmen’s ear.

I am brave by an act

  of will, said the saint

  my nature is to fear

O saint even you must fear

  the crease of Carmen’s ear.

                2.

For Carmen is a cutthroat

  Carmen is a queen

  Carmen sings of passion

    and blows her breath at me.

Carmen is a royal whore

  Carmen is a slut

  Carmen has a mustache

    and smiles at flowing blood.

I knew Carmen when she was young

  Before her mustache bleached

  A colored flag around her neck

    she kissed the pirate’s fleet

  and seduced herself to me

  and stole from me a steed.

Her head upon the pillow

  she caught her flesh to mine

  And went off at a gallop

    some galley’s keep to find

    presenting me her ear

    returning greed a fiend.

Oh, I was a young man

  Cold, evil and strong

  And few were the ladies

    I couldn’t dog, dog-bitch,

    you’re in my bed

    and cue them out half-dead.

                3.

Five children started in my land

  Six across the sea.

  None knew my hand upon

    his head. Royal bastards all.

    One swore my death was in

  her vow. Loyal bastards royal.

But Carmen was a crueler siege

  Than all my evil gathered

  And tore the heart right out of the ram

    while all that’s vain was shattered.

And now I am a saint. (O pity me.)

Now I am a saint. (O pity me)

  I stare into the eyes

    of devils,

      devils dark and foul

  and look them down

  and steal their ground

while in me tolls a hollow

  by the heart

    of Carmen’s ear

  near the heart of Carmen’s ear

  that scar on horror’s breast

    which fears no fire

for death to Carmen is Devil’s dare

for Hell to Carmen is heaven’s mare:

  a trot away from this flat world

  where saints and witches stale

  and war’s too whored for open fight

  swears the heart of Carmen’s ear

  swings the hooves of Carmen’s steed:

    ride, ride, ride with me.

4.

Come ride with me into my land

Down down along my crease

And we will live forever

  in the marrow of the beast

  and we will live forever

  in the sweetmeat of desire

Oh we will live forever

  In the sweetmeat of disease

  oh we will live forever

  by the steeps at Carmen’s knees

  we will live forever

in the crease of Carmen’s ear

in the crease

in the crease

in the crease of Carmen’s ear.

The Upper Classes

C. Camembert and Caviar

It’s a fine wine

   hearty as one drinks it,

                    peppery

        yet it seems

            to come

             florid

              and

            soft

Yes, I answered,

   we have an

   old peasant

   saying:

It’s a fine wine

        but the devil

        pooted

        in it

        once.

The second bottle

   was

   Sierra Blanca

   a California

    Sauterne,

   with a moldy

   label

and a green

   rusted cork,

age and

   color

   of

   cobweb.

So we

   chose it

over a fast

   dry

   cool

   professional

   blonde

   from

Bordeaux.

Yet when

  the

  nectar

crested

over

the eddies

of fume

that rose

from

the dust

of the cork,

the wine

was sour

and

squalid

like

bad breath

on a good goose

with bad teeth.

Oh well,

we murmured

never fall

for a

pretty face

again.

Nonetheless, we agreed: Domestic may be the wisest choice

For the ocean voyage spoils the wine.

It is the movement of the waves upon

the memory of a grape

Water lapping water is too sensual to the touch

wine delivers its love to the bottle

before the trip is out.

Ohhhh. Unhappy continent

livid America

the taste of wine, of foreign wine that crossed the sea

is like a taste of love the second time.

Poor wine said Lady Grape shedding a tear.

Vodka is fine

we agreed,

one can keep

one’s character,

it doesn’t do

funny things

to the style

of the soul

departing,

it doesn’t

get into

the end

of one’s

fingers

and leave them weak.

You must never let

anything

get into

the end

of your fingers

but

    Love

said evil

getting up

to get another drink.

The caviar is marvelous, however.

(I do love the taste of the soul

in each little egg.) Still!

One does have to entertain the thought

that learning so much about the deep

                        perhaps,

oh dear God no,

perhaps next life

I will be a fish.

fizz

fire

flash

foo

flesh

   went the bubbly.

Como no, Senor

   said the sommelier

   I know some fine

   accommodations

   in the sea.

If poetry is the food of the soul

then some poems are like pot roast

lots of meat, pannikins of gravy and

a great deal of taste all very

much the same.

                Other poems are fishy

tang, pepper, weed, and green as the

sea. I know a few which stick to the

fingers. Poetaster in patisserie. But my poems—

                    I want my poems

to be like bones. Bones make it possible

to stay in good form.

                    And there are

poems which taste of grass, air, earth,

rock salt and old lady granite in the

minerals (not to mention all

the dairy products, milky poems,

vegetables and gourds.)

                    But I want

my poems to be like bones and shine

silver in the sun.

                For poems which

are like bones crackle in my teeth.

Look for the death within the death.

Since Camembert is the King of cheeses

foul, corrupt, redolent of old uses, dirty royal feet

and wealth beneath the ground,

then Brie becomes my Prince

said the air of morning to her appetite.

Still, said Camembert, monarchies produce architecture,

princes bastards

and morning speaking to her appetite is mud

to those who drink with Faust at night

Yes, adventurers gargle the sour blood of dukes

and eat me says Camembert

Power is nothing without the smell

of a royal crevice at your finger.

Oh, says Brie, nothing is so lovely

as the milk of morning on my mouth.

Do not let the world sodden us with its liver,

its poor colon and a smell of the hoarded past

Good architecture comes from young men

stealing the better half of form

from the royal round rump of some majestic lady

who smuggles jewels to the prince

and embezzles deeds from the King.

One cannot give a funeral service to the fart

        and yet there are broken winds that walk the plank in pride.

HYMNS

The sweetest

        song

I ever heard

        was

   the sound

   of each

    tongue

    on the

   other’s

    bung

   said a choirmaster

    for the Devil.

THE INAUGURAL BALL

                1.

There was a time

       when fornication

       was titanic

and the Devil

       had to work

       to cheat a womb.

       (pride of his teeth

        on a root

        long enough

            to

        pluck it out

        the green wet sea

        of the pussy slue

        and down a falling

                flight

        of cellar stairs

        hard, dark, deep

        into the maiden brown

        rooting out the bowels

        which fell

        like assassins

            upon the white foam

            of God’s arrow)

                2.

There was a time

    when fornication

    was satanic

   and the Devil

    had to work

    to cheat a womb.

        (licked the liqueur

            of milady’s loot

            off a hot feathered face

            and sobbed in despair

            as God won the race

            to shoot the fury

            of his intentions

            to the proper place.)

3.

But now the Devil

smokes a cigar

and has his nose

up U.S. phar-

maceutical

The assassins

who fall on God’s

white arrow

give off the fumes

of chemical

killer bedded

in vaseline

as heroic

in its odor

as the exhaust

which comes off a

New York City

Transportation

System Bus

                4.

I do not want

        to believe it.

(Ay, no quiero verla!)

   that the scent

    of the clerk

    at Merck

        and

        Merck

    is the last

        of the Devil’s odor.

No.

    I want

to declaim

that the time

    will return

    when

    Lucifer wrestles

    the Lord again

        for fucking

    all glory

    of Heaven’s vault

            in flame,

            and

            mandarins

            mad

            with

            fright

            at fucking

            and God’s

            black

            light.

XII

The Lower Classes

There was a meet for the boys

The moolahs the mozzers, the Maf, the Coast and the Nose

even the bonze and the dunes.

They were in to get acquaints for a new soft commodtz

and general affiliate.

How, said the Coaster to the Nostrand

do you think soft sell began?

Well, I’ll tell you said the Maf; we said to the dunes

whaderya trying to shove that shit

    down people’s troat for?

Slip it up their stroonz

    you asshole

Strike a match!

Said the dunes to the Maf,

Whaderya want to give me a hard-on for?

you have hurt my feels

how much can the heart of my feels take

before the heart of some other Guinea’s feel

    is forced to break?

Listen, said the dunes to the Maf—you’re a dunze,

Don’t get hit!

So they had a ruining

They had the runs.

That was some thunder.

Those fartsaroons came close to eating all the prunes.

EAST VILLAGE

In New York

it’s not

enough to be polite,

one must

be

brutally polite,

to wit:

variations

observe

the theme

of foul

economy

Shithead

follows

up your

bunny

honey

in

balance

and propriety

Jew

bastard

if said

in a

Village

bar

is as

gentle

as

spade

creep

Fuck off

can be

returned

with

three

stiff

fingers

to the

plexus

or the neck

The

rule

is

keep

cool

This

is

New

York

Now

  these

  children

  want me

  to roast

  their tea

  said

  The Man

  with the bag

Do they

  think

  I’m a

  mother

  with

  shades

  and a

  furled

  umbrella?

  Go to sea

    Jim,

  I have

    something

    in my

      head

    that

    would

    really

    kill

    you

TO THE GHOST OF SENATOR JOE

Another orphan

        said McCarthy

        let’s have a high mass

        and kiss her ass

        before we kick

        her cunt in,

        sister superior.

Ooooooo

Is this poem good for the Jews?

        asked Reverend Godspee

        of the Inter-Faith Council

                        for

                The Committee of

Hearth and Heart, Share and Care

Kick his cunt in too

                    said McCarthy

Reverend Godspee is

                    a Communist

You’re fucking aye

                said all the louts

                in all the bars

                in Queens

                and they were right

                for once.

You

  can’t

  and you

  won’t

  print that,

    said

    the Lady who

    was running

        for office

       in a voice

     that

        released

        half

        her

        souls

    from prison

        and

        dropped

        them

        into

        Hell.

TO THE LOWER CLASSES

Noblesse

    Oblige

has one rule

    and

one rule only

You must be

        so nice

        so bright

        so quick and

        so well turned

            that

        no one need

            tell you

            a second time.

Tell me what?

        that the world

            is well-lost

            for love

        and the upper

            classes

            are the

            law above?

I tell you this:

    if the

    upper classes

are kin to God

            in style—

(which is one hypothesis

            we do not ignore:

                how else account

                for elegance?)

if the

upper classes

are kin to God

  in style

then God has no love

but guilt, nor a style

apart from fashion,

no courage but to

do in duty

  what

one does not desire

and no worth

but for His love

at beauty

For there

is noble’s work

their plea:

  that they

love in truth

with all sense

of Christian

    love

 divorced from self

the air of beauty

and her pomp.

The poor know naught

 but death

they do not free

they obliterate.

Stripped of its

        distinctions

    life is a flat city

        whose isolated spurs

        cut the sky

        like housing projects.

    Think of the air

        whose heart is bruised

        by touching such artifacts.

        (Does the cutworm forgive

                the plow?)

I tell you, say the rich,

    the poor are naught

    but dirty wind

    welling in air-shafts

    over the cinders

    and droppings of

    the past, their

    voices thick

    with grease

    and ordure,

    sewer-greed

    to corrode the ear

    with the horrors

    of the past

and the voids

    of new stupidity.

One could drown

    waiting for the poor

    to make

    one fine distinction.

Yes, destroy us

    say the rich

    and you lose

      the roots

      of God.

Destroy them

say the poor

we cannot breathe

nor give

until we etch

on their rich nerve

the cruel razor

and heartless club

of our past,

those sediments of

waste

which curbed

   our genes

   and flattened

   the vision we

   would give

  the chromosome.

Yes, destroy them

say the poor

burn them, rob them

gorge their tears

and such half of beauty

lost to pomp

will flower

unglimpsed wonders

in the rose,

will flower

unglimpsed wonders

in the rows.

I wonder,

said the Lord

I wonder if I know the answer

          any more.

Panhandling

the Bowery

on Sunday aft

with gray sky

and no butts

we had an

argument

over the

    merits

of frozen food

versus canned

Canned is awful,

I said, it comes

out half dead.

Yea, said Red

    but

    frozen

    is stone.

SQUARE DANCE

On the meat of the rich

And the urge of the poor

The purge of the ore

And the grease of the bitch

A lady was burning

A whore was a-scorch

Gorge was the cheese

And ass the itch

Of Pussy and Pick-nose

And swish out the twitch

Deep hurted the liver

Raw buried the sauce

Hotshit the hurricane

Herded the gourd

Howligan, hooligan

Hurry up all

Tonight is the night

Of the Hip Hole Ball

Perfume and heart

Snatch squinch and squeeze

Ear-wax and dingle

Fuck tit and dong

Fling a hole on your point

And sweeten the joint

Tonight is the night

Of the Hip Howl Ball.

XIII

Hunting for Poems

Men who go out for game

hope to find in our blood

the poems of their flesh

said a deer in her pain

BURNT UMBER

                YELLOW OCHRE

A crap,

        said

        the

        pedant

        picking

          his

          paws

        is an

idealist

        who has

        not yet decided

          he is worthy

          to be considered

                a shit.

Mon dieu, Feinspan,

in terror, I

        exclaimed

abjure the

Anglicans

“Our concern was speech, and speech impelled us

To purify the dialect of the tribe

And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight.”

    aftersight and foresight

    the sound is dull

            in the ear

            like a bruise

            on fruit or

            taint

            in strong

            meat

    So curious a man

            this Eliot

    exquisite, pertinent,

    yet dimmed in his climax

    aftersight and foresight

            hole upon hole

            a curse

            upon prosody

            even when T.S.

            sponsors

            the hole.

I have a simple mind

  and write my words

  to sweep across

  a broad cloth.

Rich talents go often

  to misers who make

  diadems of chocolate.

    the emperor is

    the emperor of ice cream

Yes, the rich speak only

  to the purls of their lace.

  I want the whole wipe

  of the cloth

Or do I delude myself

  and merely spit like

  a hoodlum

  into the wake of phaetons

  that drive away?

A writer who

  has power

  should use it

  to extract

  such benefits

  from his

  publisher

      as

    give

        his

     words

     room

  to

     breathe

A snake

can’t strike

in a box

    you break

    up your

      line

      like

       ee

       cum

        mings

    I notice

I am looking

    for the

    fish who

    swim in the

            spaces

ee likes the

            herbs

            in the

            letters

Some poems

   are mild

   and pleasant

   little children

     who bear no title

         and need none

      one doesn’t notice

         their

         nakedness

A title

   is not

   a hat

   but

   a suit

    so

   sometimes

    I leave

   it at the

    bottom of

    the page,

    for

   I don’t want

    all these poems

            to be

            unclothed.

            Some should be

                standing

              with

              their trousers

              dropped to

                their shoes.

Of course

   by this logic

   a title at the head

   is like a dress

   lifted over the breast

Poems

   written by

   masochists

    flop like cows

      in the meadow.

       Take pity on me

        they cry, pay

        attention, I

        am so sensitive

        to nature and

        full of milk

Poems

   should be like pins

   that prick the skin

                    of boredom

                    and leave

                    a glow

        equal in its pride

        to the gait

        of the sadist

            who stuck

              the pin

              and walked away

JUSTICE

       She’s a

       bitch

       said

       the witch

       in a tone

       that clarified

       the eternal meaning

       of the consonants.

    No, your honor,

       said my voice.

       Without vowels

       there is no

        justice

        in human verdict.

We were speaking

of bitches

said

the judge

Ignore eternity

and the color

she gives to legal

utterance

It is better

to chase consonants

than vowels.

consonants are

  fact and force

  clear as compound

interest

vowels are hot eyes

in hard bodies

bleeding for trouble.

But I replied:

Eternity is first heard

            on the pigeon’s wing

            of a sigh

            breathing alas at

            all that passes

            and does not live

      Judge, Your Honor,

            Bind me over

            to the next of size

            for I do dream

            that love there may be

                in human flow.

DANGER

Words in the nerve

of becoming

are feathers

    of eternity

    (insofar

        as a poem may become

        the death of another

        who believed the poem

        and so ended in some alley

        of bad venture

        with the wrong foe)

                those

who are alive

look to others

for a mirror

half dead, one drinks

                alone at night

                and writes poems

bad ones said self

sorry pity

should write so sad

and beg for tears

THE CORNERS OF A SQUARE

1.

It would

    be

an aid

if the

   blind

   came

    to the

    game

because

their ears

    are

    clean

    said

the dream.

2.

I would

    be

afraid

of those

    who

hear and

do not

   see

   said

the word.

3.

I am

   in

love with

those who

   come

with their

wound to

   me

said the

mood

   for

those who

   see

and do

not hear

   wound

   others

   with their

   voice

4.

Those who

  hear

and do

not see

give

alms

   to Eve

 and

   other

 ill

 said

  the peace

that comes

from

the police.

Let

  at least

a drink

  be

named

  after me

said the poet

  sealing his

fate

  for

no bar

  in the land

would tease

    the police.

XIV

Politicians

EXODUS

Goodbye America

Jesus said.

Come back, boy!

We cried too late.

XV

Hemingway Revisited

Jake pissed

with

stern

loneliness

leaving

a fierce

smell

of the past.

His future

was not

so empty

as he declared,

a girl with

music and grace

tender of face

was waiting

for him.

Hey—

  you

    sleep

    deep—

  but what a sight

    see

    you

        soon

      beautiful

      I hope

Catherine

found this note

by her telephone

on awakening

in an empty bed

after a one night

stand and she called

her best friend

to say;

        Guess what?

        I feel like

            Earth

            Mother.

Catherine never blushed

        until

        she smelled

    the fine cheat

        in

        the line

        of the succession

    and then

        she flushed

        furiously

    for she thought

        the smell

        adorable,

        it was

        so

        rich

        to rise

            from

            the poor.

We really ought, Catherine said

to be able to stay together

without making love

all the time.

Yes, said Jake,

I’m sure it’s my fault.

Yes, she said smugly

you smell so greedy

                and good

Swarms and swarms

  of love

  smug, smug, smug.

You may not love me

                Jake said

        but I love you.

Well, I love you,

        said Catherine

        so

        bad luck.

They loved each other

        very much.

They had not taken

        a good wash

        in three weeks.

It would have been

        the next wrong

        to murdering

            a child.

What the hell

        they were both

        thirty

        forty

        tired, tried,

        sad, foul

They thought they

        had betrayed

        something

        forever,

And She forgave them.

Or thus they hoped.

        So, bad luck

        muttered the

            horror

            of old

            habit,

            We will die

            if we lose

            our love.

Mangled, morgued

birched and bruted

        they were

        hawks

        upon the mood

          of their

          own blessing.

So they scattered,

        waiting

          for the

          curse.

Slack the yaws

  tight the jaws

  hurricane

  the air

of waiting

I feel

  like

I’ve been

  through purga-

    tory, Catherine

              said.

    Sometimes

    I think

        it won’t

          be bad

        when

          we die

          because

        we’ve served

          part

            of

          purgatory al-

                  ready.

Yes.

It’s been

    bad.

    But

  twelve years

    ago

      we were

      good.

Oh, darling, good, she agreed,

                so good.

I used to think

  it would

be always,

but it wasn’t, it

turned out

to be

such a little

taste

of

heaven

for twelve

long years.

A little taste

        of heaven

    is all we get, baby,

    said Jake.

    through the

    microphone

    and plate

        glass

        window

    of the visitor’s

            room

          under

      the shotguns

      eyes

      bellies

      and blue serge suits

      of the guards

      who guard

the sacred heart

of the Republic.

XVI

The Harbors of The Moon

  I used

  to think

  my life

  would be

  a

destiny

  and now

  I realize

    it’s but a fate

  said a man

  I met

  in Bellevue

  for

  stabbing

  his

  brother

  with a

  kitchen

  knife.

One

  nerve

screams

  before

    you

    fall

  said

    the

ledge

    on

  the

window

    of

  the

nineteenth

        floor

DEATH OF A LOVER WHO LOVED DEATH

1.

I find

  that

  most

  of the people I

            know

    are immature

    and cannot

            cope

            with reality

    said the suicide.

His death

  followed

    a slash on each wrist.

He coped with

        reality

        well.

2.

It was unreality

  which waited

  on a midnight trail

in that

jungle of eternity

he heard murmuring

  on the other side.

Oh, night of the jungle,

  God of mercy

  wept the suicide

  do not ask me

  to reconnoiter

this

 dark

 trail

   when I am now

  without

  hands.

IN THE JARDIN EXOTIQUE OF EZE

In the Jardin Exotique of Eze

the cactus come up from the sea

like an anemone wooing a spider

or a pygmy with a blowgun dart.

Silently they smell the breeze,

        invertebrate,

their memory as long as the tripe of the Mediterranée.

Was it once or never? that a God from deep waters

            dreaming of the moon

fell in love with a gleam from the midnight sky

who, intoxicated with herself

and the rapture of the depths,

like a daughter most fortunate in family,

beautiful, spoiled, innocent of alarm,

wandered down an alley

dark as the pitch of blackest frustration

and there was trapped by the sound of need

in the murmur of an ape.

So did the God of dark waters woo a moon beam

and from their love leave a seed

on the spume of the wrack

which washes a desert shore

Cactus,

mad psychotic bulb of light and dark

          spy of the deep sea

          intimate of the moon

your form inspires nausea

for love that dares too much

and has no soil but sand

flowers spines of lunar hatred

shapes tubers on the leaf

and gives no wine but visions from peyote

of ether and her gardens

which burn with the

death of suns

and phosphorescent nights.

THE EXECUTIONER’S SONG

I think if I had three good years to give

  in study at some occupation

  that was fierce and new

  and full of stimulation

I think I would become

          an executioner

  with time spent out in the field

  digging graves for bodies I had made

            the night before.

You see: I am bad at endings

my bowels move without honor

  and flatulence is an affliction

  my pride must welcome with gloom

It comes I know from preoccupation

  much too much with sex

Those who end well do not spend their time

  so badly on the throne

For this reason I expect the task

  of gravedigger welcomes me

I would like to kill well and bury well

Perhaps then my seed would not shoot

  so frantic a flare.

If I could execute neatly

  (with respect for whatever romantic

                        imagination

gave passion to my subject’s crime)

and if I buried well

(with tenderness, dispatch, gravity

and joy that the job was not jangled—

giving a last just touch of the spade

to the coffin

            in order to leave it

quivering

          like a leaf—for forget not

coffins quiver as the breath goes out

and the earth comes down)

Yes,

if I could kill cleanly

and learn not to turn my back

on the face of each victim

as he chooses

            what is last to be seen

in his eye,

        well, then perhaps,

then might I rise so high upon occasion

as to smite a fist of the Lord’s creation

into the womb of that muse

which gives us poems

Yes, then I might

For one ends best when death is clean

  to the mind

            and calm in its proportion

fire in the orchard and flame at the root.

Is mood a temple

    to give us

    sanctuary

    against

        the desire

        of our cells

        to return to

           their beginnings

           under a

           new master

           who promises

           that he

           will not

           repeat

    the hesitations,

    compassions

            and

    aesthetic

            com-

    punctions of God

      about

        pleasure

        profit

      and

        progress

      but

        instead

          will rip up

          the roots

and give us

the broad

macadam

        of

eternity without fire

and sucaryl

for the syrup

            of the peach.

A WANDERING IN PROSE: FOR HEMINGWAY, SUMMER 1956

Why do you still put on that face

powder which smells like Paris when

I was kicking Seconal and used to

get up at four in the morning and

walk the streets into the long wait

for dawn (like an exhausted husband

pacing the room where you wait for

the hospital to inform you of wife

and birth) visions of my death

already in the nauseas off my tense

frightened liver—such a poor death,

wet with timidity, ordure and the

muck of a Paris dawn, the city more

beautiful than it had ever been, warm

in June and me at five in an Algerian

bar watching the workers take a

swallow of wine for breakfast, the

city gentle in its light even to me

and I sicker than I’ve ever been,

weak with loathing at all I had not done,

and all I was learning of all I would

now never do, and I would come back

after combing the vistas of the Seine

for glints of light to bank in the

corroded vaults of my ambitious and

yellow jaundiced soul and there back

in bed, nada, you lying in bed in hate

of me, the waves of unspoken flesh

radiating detestation into me because

I have been brave a little but not nearly

brave enough for you, greedy bitch,

Spanish lady, with your murderous

Indian blood and your crazy purity

hung on courage in men as if it were

your queen’s own royal balls, and I

would lie down next to you, that smell

of unguent and face powder bleak and

chic as if the life of your skin depended

now not on the life my hands could give

in a pass upon your cheek, but upon the

arts of the corporation mixing your

elixirs in hundred gallon vats by

temperatures calibrated to the thermostat,

bleak and chic like the Hotel Palais

Royale (“my home away from home” we had

seen written by Capote in his cuneiform

script when the guest book was passed

to me for the equivocal cachet of my

signature so dim in its fashion that

year) and I took up the pen thinking

of the buff-colored damp of our indif-

ferent room where we slept in misery

wondering if we had lost the loots of

anticipation we had commanded once so

fierce in one-another—or was it only

me? for that is the thought of a lover

when his death comes over him in that

scent of the creams you rubbed on your

face while I slept the half-sleep of

the addict kicking the authority of

his poison—how bitter and clean was

the taste of the Seconal. And now the scent

of that cream came over me again as you kissed

me here at this instant, wearing it

again, knowing I detest it because again

it drives the secret of my poor augure

for eternity into those caverns of my

nose which lead back among the stalactites

of the nostril to the dream and one’s

nightly dialogue with the fine verdicts

of the city asleep, and all souls on the

prowl talking to one another in the

dark markets of heaven about the future

of what we are to be if one obeys the

shape we gamblers have given to that

tool of destiny—our character. And the

smell of the corporation is still on

your skin mocking what I have done to

mine.

THE HARBORS OF THE MOON

I

know

a town

with

sighs

of

sea

smiled

the

white

witch

I know

a town

that

sails

the

sun

I know

a town

where

light

is dry

and

boats

come

home

with

silver

in their

hold

where

boats

come

home

with

silver

in their

hold

(do not

grieve

the

death

of

little

fish

They

are

lights

that

seek

the

deep)

I know

a town

with

sighs

of sea

white

with

the

tides

of me

white

as the

spine

of the

sea.

APPENDIX

Introduction to
Deaths for the Ladies
(and other disasters)

Deaths for the Ladies was written through a period of fifteen months, a time when my life was going through many changes, including a short stretch in the prison ward of Bellevue, the abrupt dissolution of one marriage, and the beginning of another. It was also a period in which I wrote very little, and so these poems and short turns of prose were my lonely connection to the one act that gave a sense of self-importance. I was drinking heavily in this period, not explosively as I had at times in the past but steadily—most nights, I went to bed with all the vats loaded, and for the first time my hangovers in the morning were steeped in dread. Before, I had never felt weak without a drink—now I did. I felt heavy, hard on the first steps of middle age, and in need of a drink. So it occurred to me it was finally not altogether impossible that I become an alcoholic. I hated the thought of that. My pride and my idea of myself were subject to slaughter in such a vice.

Well, this preface is not to recount the story of those years and how I may have come out of them; no, we are here to give a crack of light to the little book that follows. I used to wake up in those days, as I have just remarked, with a drear hangover, and the beasts who were ready to root in my entrails were prowling outside. To a man living on his edge, New York is a jungle, and such mornings were full of taboo. It was often directly important whether the right or left hand was crossed with water first.

One modest reality used to save such hours from dipping too quickly into too early a drink. It was the scraps of paper I would find in my jacket. There were fragments of poems on the scraps, not poems really, little groupings of lines, little crossed communications from some wistful outpost of my mind where, deep in drink the night before, it had seemed condign to record the unrecoverable nuance of a moment, a funny moment, a mean moment, a moment when something I might always have taken for granted was turned for an instant on its head.

Some of those curious little communications that came riding in on the night through an electrolyte of deep booze were fairly good, many were silly, the best were often indecipherable. This would feel close to tragic. Almost always the sensation of writing a good poem (in the dark of early morning) was followed in the daylight by the knowledge I had gone so deep I could not find my eyes. My handwriting had temporarily disintegrated in the passion of putting down a few words. Somebody had obviously been awash in the rapture of the depths.

It was not so very funny. In the absence of a greater faith, a professional keeps himself in shape by remaining true to his professionalism. Amateurs write when they are drunk. For a serious writer to do that is equivalent to a professional football player throwing imaginary passes in traffic when he is bombed, and smashing his body into parked cars on the mistaken impression that he is taking out the linebacker. Such a professional football player will feel like crying in the morning when he discovers his ribs are broken.

I would feel like crying too. My pride, my substance, my capital, was to be found in my clarity of mind or—since my mind is never so very clear—let us say found in the professional cool with which the brain was able to contend with the temptations and opportunities each leap of intuition offered. It was criminal to take these leaps like an amateur, steeped in drink, wasteful, wanton. To be hearing the inspirations of the angel when one is kissing the fumes is a condition so implicit with agony that it took eighteen centuries of Christendom before Kierkegaard could come back alive with the knowledge that such moments not only existed but indeed were the characteristic way modern man found a knowledge of his soul—which is to say he found it by the act of perceiving that he was most certainly losing it.

I would go to work, however, on my scraps of paper. They were all I had for work. I would rewrite them carefully, printing in longhand and ink, and I would spend hours whenever there was time going over these little poems, these sharp dry crisp little instants, some of them no more and hopefully no less possessed of meaning than the little crack or clatter of an autumn leaf underfoot. Something of the wistfulness in the fall of the wind was in those poems for me. And since I wasn’t doing anything else very well in those days, I worked the poems over every chance I had. Sometimes a working day would go by, and I would put a space between two lines or remove a word. Maybe I was mending. As the sense of work grew a little clearer and the hangover receded, there was a happiness working mornings on Deaths for the Ladies that I had not felt for years. I loved Deaths for the Ladies, not because it was a big book—I knew my gifts as a poet were determined to be small—but because I was in love with its modesty. The modesty of Deaths for the Ladies was saving me. Out of the bonfire I seemed to have made of my life, these few embers were to be saved and set—not every last part of one’s memories would have to be consumed. Besides, I wanted to give pleasure. It seemed to me that Deaths for the Ladies would give more simple pleasure than any book I had ever written, it was pure, it was modest, it was sad, and it was funny—it was so very modest—how could one not like it? And it even had one innovation to offer poets—so I thought. There was no music or prosody or command or rush of language in the book, no power, not much meter, not at all, much of it was poetry only by the arbitrary insistence of the short line, but Deaths for the Ladies was something else, I thought—it was a movie in words. I set it with the greatest care. Every line was placed on the page by me. The spaces were chosen with much deliberation, the repetitions of phrases were like images in a film. The music of the poem as a whole—if it had any—was like the montage of a film. I felt that all of Deaths for the Ladies made up one poem, not all that great a poem, never in any way, but still a modest poem about a man loose in our city, for one cannot talk of New York without saying our city, there, majestic, choking in its own passions, New York, the true capital of the Twentieth Century. And Deaths for the Ladies was like a small sea breeze running through some of those electronic canyons where a myriad of fine moments were forever dying in the iridescence of foam.

Of course, if you fall in love with a book, you may be certain it will drown, suffocate, or expire all alone on an untended bed. Deaths for the Ladies came out in modest edition and sank without a sound. It was only reviewed in three or four places, and the one good review it received (the Sunday New York Times) was six months late. Poets, for the most part, resented it. Why should they not? I had dabbled in that life for which they were willing, if they were good enough, to starve and lose love. They had studied their craft; I had just skipped about in it. They were dedicated to poetry, I was dedicated to climbing out of the hole I had dug for myself, and poetry was offering the first rung. Therefore poets ignored the book, which was a pity, for a good poet might have done something with my little innovation, my movie in words.

But to end on a note less altruistic to the interests of art, let us look at one review. I had secret hopes, I now confess, that Deaths for the Ladies would be a vast success at the bar of poetry. The hopes got bounced. Here is the review in Time, March 30, 1962:

Ever

see

a drunk

come on

daring

I mean

drunk

like

daring

was a

sloppy

entrechat?

Mr M

comes on

with fourbucks

of poems

about sex

not love

that run

down

like this

only

not

lined up

neat.

Having less

than

fourbucks

fun

a reader

counted

the words

and concluded

Mr M

is making up

for his

first book

which had

too many.

You didn’t

score

this

time

M

a

n

But hell you know that.

In a fury of incalculable pains, a poem was written in reply, sent to Time magazine’s column of letters, and printed there.

Poem to the Book Review at Time

You will keep hiring

    picadors from the back row

    and pic the bull back

    far back along his spine

You will pass wine

    poisoned on the vine

You will saw the horns off

    and murmur

The bulls are

    ah, the bulls are not

    what once they were

Before the corrida is over

    there will be Russians in the plaza

Swine some of you will say

what did we wrong?

And go forth to kiss the conquerer.

Now, on the comfortable flank of this reminiscence, I think I may have been fortunate to get so paltry a reception on Deaths for the Ladies. For if I had been treated well, I might have kept floating on a still little pond and drowned my sorrow for myself in endless wine and scraps of paper and folios of further poems. Instead, the review in Time put iron into my heart again, and rage, and the feeling that the enemy was more alive than ever, and dirtier in the alley, and so one had to mend, and put on the armor, and go to war, go out to war again, and try to hew huge strokes with the only broadsword God ever gave any good writer—a glimpse of something like Almighty prose.

TO NORRIS

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank David Ebershoff, Dwayne R. Prickett, Danielle Mailer, J. Michael Lennon, and Judith McNally for their careful reading and criticism of this book.

ALSO BY NORMAN MAILER

The Naked and the Dead

Barbary Shore

The Deer Park

Advertisements for Myself

Deaths for the Ladies (and other disasters)

The Presidential Papers

An American Dream

Cannibals and Christians

Why Are We in Vietnam?

The Deer Park—A Play

The Armies of the Night

Miami and the Siege of Chicago

Of a Fire on the Moon

The Prisoner of Sex

Maidstone

Existential Errands

St. George the Godfather

Marilyn

The Faith of Graffiti

The Fight

Genius and Lust

The Executioner’s Song

Of Women and Their Elegance

Pieces and Pontifications

Ancient Evenings

Though Guys Don’t Dance

Harlot’s Ghost

Oswald’s Tale: An American Mystery

Portrait of Picasso as a Young Man

The Gospel According to the Son

The Time of Our Time

The Spooky Art

Why Are We at War?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

NORMAN MAILER was born in 1923 and published his first book, The Naked and the Dead, in 1948. The Armies of the Night won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1969; Mailer received another Pulitzer in 1980 for The Executioner’s Song. His most recent books, both published by Random House, are The Spooky Art and Why Are We at War? He lives in Provincetown with his wife, Norris Church Mailer.