I jot down in my notebook: “Last stanza for clarity’s sake ‘Old Folks Leaving Home.’ Include in collect whatever you do even if it takes phone calls & transpacif cabes to make it precise, & maybe even make concluding poem, since that’s how deep you feel about it & good you think it is at least now. Listen. Ambulanc passing op way other emerg vehics passed half hr ago. Just looked but am now back to jot down this nite of Di’s part, meeting Helene, snow-rain-umbrel blown out of my hand, woman walking like a sleeping bag, no perf word-words for it so far color Helenes hair, Hel looking at me at her across room and then thumping her umb open on Di’s steps, short order dwarf no sport intended intentionally reading unrecognizing me on the sub & tho ironic what he read I forget what, dresser-cat feeding on a sock, do it forget dinner with mom tomor 5 & bring elect blank & if poss bot of one of the best foreign vodks, broke-soaked poor guys in Wash Par & tif over unclean fingers was it in class music bar & berber-basque boy or so with wrong roses & now on my way to my apar (cant see exact what streets Im between because my pocketed scarred specs but somewhere in the teens) & falling on my face before & not jus the snowrain (t for the) & jus fort Jun sound of it now my lack also befor of something/another grace (no that didnt work), tho now thinking so jettisonly-clear, wha? & someone on t cot inside & someone in white seated beside & whirling red atop making wet images etc on t st & siren whining moo-mah moo-mop prob like do it say it yl regret it t incoming inpatients heart & for a sec jus now making me recolect t halfdoz emerg times rushed pop to hosp. & my decis about work & nurs mom if disabled or selfunable becaus of her ilness old or new &/or age (o for or) & realization (cdnt think shorter word on t spu o how to contract rlztion) about pure sound when I duplicate in Juns o realy any japanes poets case almos impos to translat, tho aboutface thos at(e)s. So now — tho how you rlly feeling now pal? Huh? Come on, once in yr life, heres yr chanc, rly tel. Whys it impor & whats this one biz for Ive sporadly told? Never on memo. Thats ridic. Then nevr to friends. I hav, much of it. Then nev to me. Tha cd be tru I think but who ar u? Thn to complet this diar of yr nite & one so memorabl. T diar? T nit? Wha maks it so & who writs thos? U shld so whn u get back home — wel u kno, look bk whn u gt bk yl think bk ‘Oh so thas wha happed & I rly felt tha partic nit so memobl becau so many eventfl events & all t dif things I fel, I remem now.’ No, for deeper reas. Wha? Reasons, deepr, on paper, so mayb som of t sam of wha u said, but whas rly trubling me & mayb somethings i dint kno o wdnt excep thru my probe now wer there, y not? & mayb nows t tim to do it for now Im thinking of it so mayb now I shd, rt? So cmon thn, out wit em, no mor excuses, digresons, questons o jokes — how u feel, whas deep insid, not jus yr mom & work but yr soco lif too, want to mak lov? Me, wit u? U kno wha I mean & I said no mo digres, ques o joes. Sur think, u bet, tho hope nobo ever sees this notebo, not tha I cnt rip it up, rt? tho I want mo than mak lov, now thas t tru. Yes? Yes, tis so. So? So yes, ok, no mo digres, caus here comes, penpal gt yr undrlining pen set: so lonly, longing, yernng, me, hart smartg, partly frm litl work recgniton & almo no doe, but deepst down mos trublng me is Im alo, wan to b wit He or somone lik her — o, o — wit a fe bod in bed tonit & me screeng in betwee, liqidy syrpy ros petl lips — who 1st wro somthg lik it? — strapy wrapy legs, arms al aroun, ruty souns aboun, to hold, to clutch, to click, 2 nuz, 2 dic, 2 lov, tug & kis, 2 cover b covrd, 2 b flatend by her flat 2 big brests (2 for to forget), 2 jus agreeably b wit for a nit, 2 go 2 sleep wit for l nit, 2 wak up wit nxt momg as I wnt 2 slee wit, as befor wnt 2 sle wit is wha I ment wit, meang talkg lovg befor wnt 2 sle wit, holdg/jokg wit, serious/unseros wit, 2 jus b simply o simly b wit a responsv xcitg mind as wel as bod is wha I mos want 2 b wit tonit & if pos 4 a long lng tim, tho Im sur I hvnt made myslf clear here, but anythg els wit? Tot wit perhaps in tim, but mayb I mentond tha, tho not here. Marag wit perhps, tho tha too tho nt hre. But anythg els wit? No nt rt now tho wha I jus wro wasnt awful enuf? Nt ‘awfl’ tho if awfl thn aft meang banal, sily, imatur, nt so muc thos but u kno, tho wha? O u kno or (no mo o for or now but jus fo oh) can fil in tomor or whaevr tim if I kee this tha lng, so now en clos ths joebo & cap pen wich, caus I dint refil befo I lef hom cd b runng dry, I mt latr nee fo mo impo thngs, meang relatd 2 trnsltd, 2 writ (& mt fo mite). But enuf, genug & yah. Hu? Wel, tel me whoevr sd I mus ma sens 2 myslf — who? Nu? O Go, stop go, tho whas tha supo 2 mea tha OG, sto go? Ju 2 sto wrtg rt no, go ho, lo at ths tomo, thn ter it ou of t memobo and up. I mea ‘& up.’”
I put away the notebook and look up. Something’s doing on the next block. Take out the book, look at it, put it away. Car commotion, people in the street, but what was I looking for second time I opened the book? Did it so quick I forgot to look for what I started out to and now I forget what that was. Memo to someone — myself? An anagor — somewhere, whatever the word is? Realization, reclamation, recognition of my own situation, nature and character — something like that? I take out the book, look at what I wrote. Last stanza, include whatever you do, even to concluding with, etcet etcet, snow and rain, dinner at five tomor, pop in hosp, what the heck’s hart smarting? and I cross it out with my pen till I can’t read it. Here and now feelings, meeting Helene, just to be with someone tonight, etcet etcet — makes sense but’s nothing new. I cross out all those too, worried someone one day might see what I wrote and wonder what was with him. I write “Anorisis or anagisis or some other an-isis or — asis — look it up. Word’s in Web’s 3rd.” First stumbled on it when? Was looking up anagoge not long back, fourth time it seemed in as many weeks. Some words are like that with me. Heuristic’s another — why can’t I remember what it means? “Anagoge & heuristic,” I write. “Lk em up & how to pronounc anagog again.” Pen runs dry on “n”. I unscrew it, squeeze the bladder, nothing inside. Ink’s one of the only things one can’t borrow from a passerby. Plenty of things, but I know what I mean. I put the pen away. Strapy wrapy legs — oh so po. My eyes already ache. Ruty souns aboun is abysmal, abominable — quick, which, if forced to make an instant deadline printing decision between those two, would read better and would I choose? I close the nobook — abandonable — and put it in my coat. Of course. What I wanted to do and was in that book was that love buzwax, marag, tot. Maybe then, with an adjective adjective woman, one who makes trenchant observations about me I’ve been unable to hit upon on my own, things would change for me somewhat. Woman who unscrews me, presses my bladder, I don’t know if the latter act works, till I run dry. Who holds me and let me hold her while I sleep. No lets, we just do: hold each other going into and in sleep and when we wake up. To know when I’ve awakened that I’ve held her and am holding her. Of course I’d know I’m holding her because I’d have waked up. But that’s what I want or something like: woman and bed simultaneously. Right now. This sec. I want to snap my fingers and open my eyes to it. I believe in miracles? Will if this one now comes true. I snap my fingers, close my eyes, say to myself, but maybe I should have first closed my eyes, snapped my fingers, said to myself, anyway I close my eyes again, snap my fingers, say to myself “Me with Helene in Helene’s bed what I want right now, please.” Forget the please. Too much like when I used to pray to God out of fear every night before I fell asleep. God please this, please that, God please keep my mommy well, sister unsick, daddy making money and alive, God no awful war, enemy soldiers landing ashore, please God I beg, wish, swear I’ll be a good boy from now on and pray to you as much as you like, and please if there’s anything I’m doing or not doing you’re not pleased with, please let me know. Close my eyes, snap my fingers, say to myself “Me with Helene in really any nice clean bed right now,” open them. I liked it when she used the word scoot. And way she moved. As well as what she didn’t say and do. What do I mean “way she moved”? She moved normally, naturally, unaffectedly, but athletically, though not muscleboundly, as if as a girl she used to seriously tap dance or take some after-school classical or modern dance or early-on had exceptionally agile legs as if she’d run and won or second-placed in dashes and long-distance races in grade school and beat when they let her compete most boys her age, and also how she flew downstairs at Diana’s so sure she didn’t even think that flying down so fast she could have fallen on her face. Or just fallen, forget the face. Tripped but not gotten hurt. And “as well as what she didn’t say and do”? So subdued. That’s not the word. But something I liked. Not edgy, testy, overpeppy, sloppy, noisy, coarse, raucous, smoky, talky, scowly, mousy, so on. That she whacked the umbrella open: in notebook too. “Okay, Mr. Krin, now I must scoot.” “I’ve got to.” “Now I got to.” Or “have to.” But definitely “scoot.” This one I truly mustn’t ruin. Meaning she: I shouldn’t. Though with those phone calls? No, lots of apologies as I said. “Um, just joking, I was, but not the best jest-joking, no?” No, no more jesting in joking. “I didn’t think my call would wreak so much harm.” Or truth: “I was a little high. Not a little. Let me tell the truth: a lot. But you also should know that’s unusual for me to get so high. No it’s not. Truth is, if I’m gonna tell it, or going to, cause that’s, I mean because that’s or those are just another language affectation or digression I use to direct attention to what I say and away from what I do: I get high. Don’t want to but I do. No, truth, I do want to, because lots of times I’ve nothing else to do or think I don’t or just don’t want to think about doing anything else, so about once every three weeks I get high, but not as high as I got that night, is the truth. Usually by myself high. A solitary tippler mostly. I don’t like it though do when I’m doing it or planning to. If things changed for me in ways I’ve gone over with myself, I’d probably change that drinking habit as well as stop drinking a little too much almost every night of the week while I read and often just to get to sleep, and that’s also the truth. Doesn’t interfere with my work though. Wake up, regular time, no alarm clock, exercise, coffee, newspaper, maybe a shower and in an hour I’m ready to go, or almost, though ten to fifteen times a year or so when I get high the previous night, mornings till around noon will be slow. And God knows why I feel compelled to tell all this in my first call to you when you certainly didn’t want to hear it, right? Look: right, wrong, truth or not, and maybe half of that was, since I tend to distort as well as affect and digress — well, maybe not as well as, though I am a pretty effective distorter too — just see me, okay? You’ve no reason to even speak to me I guess, but what but an hour or less do you have to lose? Meet me I mean, not see, for coffee, tea or even a drink, because what I didn’t want you to think before, and I swear I’m not trying now to affect, digress or distort, is that drink’s any kind of problem with me. Those ten to fifteen mornings-after a year perhaps, but usually when I start work late I work later into the day than I usually do, and because I’m so tired from having worked late and maybe also from the evening before, that late day is usually one of the ten to fifteen days a year I don’t drink or hardly at all. And meet not tonight if you don’t like. Now that I think of it we can’t, since tonight, and what I’m going to say isn’t going to be said so you’ll think something like how nice that he’s such a good son, I’m going to visit my mother, but maybe in the coming week, so what do you say? Even a couple of drinks or dinner or both for two on me. You can’t? You won’t? You never will? You’ll meet? Great. Time and date and see you at yours or you at mine or just at the meeting place.” I want to hold her face in my hands and bring it toward mine and lean over the two to three inches I think it’d take if what I’m remembering now is right about her height and if she doesn’t raise herself on her toes to kiss. I want to. Yes. Very much. To open my eyes and find hers closed. Then open them again and find them open. Hers. Her to smile when I find her eyes open when I open mine. Her to take my face in her hands and bring it down to hers and kiss my lips. Want to. I. Lie my head on a pillow beside hers on a pillow or both ours on the same pillow and our lips almost touching but not speaking and then touching and our eyes closing, though I don’t know why not speaking. Sure we can be speaking. Softly, moderately, I suppose any way but loudly, crudely, though even there too. So we’re kissing and holding and possibly speaking and possibly crudely but not loudly and doing the rest. Doing the best. To have done the rest. To shut the light and her to turn over and face away from me or the light’s already off and we’ve done the rest and her to turn over and I press up from behind while my nose is in her hair or lips are on her shoulder or neck and penis against her behind or between her thighs. I’m sure I can get out of that window scene and calls to her service some way. Lots of apologies. But not to act oafish on the phone. She’s a bright woman. She’ll probably respect the work I do. She looks like she likes poetry. Courses she gives. Plenty of poetry in there and that she’ll respect what I do I didn’t mean makes her bright. But all could be so nice. Live at her place if it’s big enough if first we worked out. Two bedrooms, one for her to work in, I’d set up and tear down the living room table every day or some other unused day space. I’d mind but adapt. All I need’s one drawer and a long shelf. Two incomes, not rents, how else can a representative couple like us afford to live in this city without a struggle, and 600 block of West Hundred-tenth could be along Riverside Drive or close. Maybe she overlooks the Hudson. Tugs would pass. Summertime Circle Line trippers. Columbia area may be near as she can safely live to City College did Diana say? If so my alma I’ll tell her next time we speak. Pre-med, then pre-dent, but I’d frequently feel queasy when I entered the bio and chem buildings because of the formaldehyde and rotten eggs smells and couldn’t learn the formulas and laws or dissect the baby pig or earthworms. Wasn’t a smart student — I can get part of this into the phone call some way, maybe just to say I thought she taught at City but then remembered it was a college upstate. Now makes me wonder why she lives around Columbia: went there or to City for her postgraduate work and got a cheap flat and stayed? Someone cut them up and labeled the parts for me and in exchange I took the requisite swimming test for him in gym under his name. Never got a post-B. A. I’ll say. Not boasting of course. They wouldn’t believe him when he said he sinks when he jumps in. Got interested in Japanese language and lit through a deeply moving Japanese movie about Japanese prisoners of war when I was nearly thirty and waiting tables at a beach resort. But more from the book it was based on that I later read and took a quick Berlitz thinking that would be it and then private lessons from an elderly Japanese businessman I taught English to and cooked dinner for in return. He also taught me the sake and tea ceremonies and how to disembowel myself and make paper