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castle

and when you got inside

the ceilings were so very

high

and I was poor

and it all rather

fascinated

me.

she

was no longer

young

but she had

masses

of hair

that damn near

went down to her

ankles

and

I thought about

how strange

it would be

doing it

with all that

hair.

I drove up there

several times

in my old

car

and she had fine

liquors to

drink

and we sat

but I could

never quite get

near her

and though I didn’t

push at

it

something about

not

connecting

did offend my

ego

for ugly as I was

I had always been

lucky with the

ladies.

it confused me

and I suppose

I needed

that.

she liked to

talk about

the arts and

about

film making

and listening

to all that

only made me

drink

more.

I

finally

just

gave her

up

and a good year

or so

went by

when

one night

the phone

rang: it was the

lady.

“I want to come see

you,” she said.

“I’m writing now, I’m

hot…I can’t see

anybody…”

“I just want to come

by, I won’t bother you,

I’ll just sit on the couch,

I’ll sleep on the couch, I

won’t bother you…”

“NO! JESUS CHRIST, I

CAN’T SEE ANYBODY!”

I hung up.

the lady who was actually

on the couch

said, “oh, you’re all

SOFT now!”

“yeah.”

“come here…”

she took my penis

in her hand

flicked out her

tongue

then

stopped.

“what are you writing?”

“nothing…I’ve got writer’s

block…”

“sure you have…your pipes are

clogged…you need to get

cleaned out…”

then she had me in her

mouth

and then the phone rang

again…

in a fury

I ran over to the

phone

picked it

up.

it was the lady in the

castle:

“listen, I won’t bother you,

you won’t even know I’m

there…”

“YOU WHORE, I’M GETTING A

BLOW JOB!”

I hung up and

turned back.

the other lady was walking

toward the

door.

“what’sa matter?” I

asked.

“I can’t STAND that

term!”

“what term?”

“BLOW JOB!” she

screamed.

she slammed the door and

was gone…

I walked to where the

typewriter sat

put a new piece of paper

in there.

it was one

a.m.

I sat there and

drank scotch and

beer chasers

smoked cheap

cigars.

3:15 a.m.

I was still sitting

there

re-lighting old

cigar stubs and

drinking ale.

the new

piece of paper was still

unused.

I switched out the

lights

worked my way toward

the bedroom

got myself on the

bed

clothes still

on

I could hear the toilet

running

but couldn’t get up

to tap the handle

to end that

sound

my god damned pipes were

clogged.

relentless as the tarantula

they’re not going to let you

sit at a front table

at some cafe in Europe

in the mid-afternoon sun.

if you do, somebody’s going to

drive by and

spray your guts with a

submachine gun.

they’re not going to let you

feel good

for very long

anywhere.

the forces aren’t going to

let you sit around

fucking-off and

relaxing.

you’ve got to do it

their way.

the unhappy, the bitter and

the vengeful

need their

fix—which is

you or somebody

anybody

in agony, or

better yet

dead, dropped into some

hole.

as long as there are

human beings about

there is never going to be

any peace

for any individual

upon this earth (or

anywhere else

they might

escape to).

all you can do

is maybe grab

ten lucky minutes

here

or maybe an hour

there.

something

is working toward you

right now, and

I mean you

and nobody but

you.

their night

never could read Tender Is the

Night

but they’ve made a

tv adaptation of the

book

and it’s been running

for several

nights

and I have spent

ten minutes

here and there

watching the troubles of

the rich

while they are leaning

against their beach chairs

in Nice

or walking about their

large rooms

drink in hand while

making

philosophical

statements

or

fucking up

at the

dinner party

or the

dinner dance

they really have no

idea

of what to do with

themselves:

swim?

tennis?

drive up the

coast?

down the

coast?

find

new beds?

lose old

ones?

or

fuck with the

arts and the

artists?

having nothing to struggle

against

they have nothing to struggle

for.

the rich are different

all right

so is the ring-