Dhalgren

scrotal flesh. He beat, till her hair on his thighs was nearly lost in some vegetative horror, then grunted, 'Okay…' His fist hit her face three times, before he let her take him. She slid her arms behind his hip, put her legs around his, while he panted and let go of her hair.

Anxiety lost outlines beneath glittering fatigue. Once he did something like wake to her back against his stomach. He reached beneath her arm to hold her breast, the nipple a button on his palm. She took his thumb as gently, he realized, as she possibly could, in case he slept.

So he slept.

There was grey light after a while. On his back, he watched leaves appear in it. Suddenly he sat, in one motion, to his knees. He said:

'I want to be a poet. I want to be a great, famous, wonderful poet.'

As he looked toward the hem of darkness beneath grey streakings, something caught in his stomach. His arms began to shake; he was nauseated; and his head throbbed; and throbbed; and throbbed. He opened his mouth and breathed roughly through it. He shook his head, felt his face shaking, and dragged his breath back in. 'Wow,' he said. The pain receded, and let him smile. 'I don't think they… make poets as great as I want to be!' That only came out as a hoarse whisper. Finally he rose, naked, to a squat and looked back at her.

He thought she would have slept through: her head was propped on her hand. She watched him.

He whispered. 'Go back to sleep.'

She pulled the blanket across her arm and put her head down.

He turned for his shirt, took the pen. He opened the notebook to what he had written at the bar. Cross- legged on the blanket's edge, he readied to recopy. The paper was blued with halfdawn. While he contemplated the first word, distractions of book jackets, printed praise, receptions by people who ranged from Richards to Newboys — The twig under his ankle brought him back. He shook his head again, shifted his ankle, again bent to recast fair copy. His eyes dropped in a well of Time magazine covers, ('Poet Refuses Pulitzer Prize'), the audience's faces as he stood on Minor Latham's stage where he had consented to give a rare reading. He hauled himself back before the fantasies' intensity hit pain. Then he laughed, because he had still not re-copied a word. He sat a while more, unable to write for thinking, amused at his lack of control, but bored with its obvious lesson.

Self-laughter did not stop the fantasies.

But neither could the fantasies stop self-laughter.

He looked in the lightening sky for shapes. Mist bellied and folded and coiled and never broke. He lay back beside her, began to rub her under the blanket. She turned to him and hid in his neck when he tried to kiss her. 'I don't think I taste very good,' she murmured. 'I'm all sleepy—' He licked her teeth. When he put his thumb in her cunt, she began to laugh through the kiss, till she caught her breath at his cock and another finger. His knees outside of hers, he swung his hips. His wet hand held her shoulder, his dry one her hair.

Later, he woke again with his arms tight around her, the blanket wound around them from rolling. The sky was lighter. 'You know, I shouldn't go back to that God-damn job,' he said. 'What do I need a job for, here?'

'Shhh,' she said. 'Shhhhhh,' and rubbed his shaven cheek. 'Now shhhhhh.'

He closed his eyes.

'Yes, who is it?' with a timbre of complaint.

'It's Kidd. Look, if it's too early, I'll come back—'

The chain rattled.

'No. No. It's all right.' Mrs Richards, in a green bathrobe, opened the door.

'Isn't anybody up yet? I didn't know how early it was.'

'It's all right,' Mrs Richards repeated. 'It's probably about eight.' She yawned. 'Would you like some coffee?'

'Thanks, yes. Can I use your bathroom.' He stepped by before she finished her sleepy nod. 'You know you got a letter in your mailbox, airmail?'

'I thought the boxes were broken.'

'Your box is okay.' He paused with his hand on the bathroom door jamb. 'And there's a letter in it.'

'Oh dear!'

He had already lathered for shaving before he registered her voice's despair.

June, in blue slacks and a pink sweater, a daisy embroidered near the collar, brought full coffee cups to the table as he sat. 'Good morning.'

'Were you up?'

'In my room. I'm always the early riser in this family. What have you been doing since yesterday?'

'Nothing. This morning, before I came here, I copied out a poem I wrote last night.'

'Read it to me?'

'No.'

She looked disappointed. 'I guess I wouldn't want to read anything I wrote to other people either.'

He held his cup in both hands, sipping.

'Is that strong enough for you?' Mrs Richards asked from the kitchen doorway. 'I've got the jar of instant right here.'

'It's fine.' Black coffee hung in his mouth's emptied center, losing heat.

'Is Bobby up yet?' Mrs Richards asked from the kitchen.

'I heard him moving. What about Daddy?'

'Let your father sleep, dear. He had a hard day yesterday.'

June asked: 'Do you want some more coffee?'

He shook his head, and with his movement the bitter taste spread over her yellow hair, the plants in their brass pots, the plastic handles on the green drapes' pull. He smiled and swallowed it all.

Apartment 19-B was open, abandoned and perfectly ordinary:

Appliances in the kitchen, bathmat over the tub edge, the beds unmade. And there was not one book. Well, it would hold furniture.

The legs of the easy chair roared in the hall. Silly, he mulled in the echo. Why don't I ask them where they want it. Fuck—! Tilt the chair to get it in.

The chair roared; the daybed mattress on its side Ssssssssed. He left it leaning against the flowered couch, and went back out into the hall for the chifferobe.

Two elevator doors opened. From one came wind, from the other, Mr Richards. 'Hi, there. Thought I'd stop up before I went out.' His tie dropped, severe and indigo, between worsted lapels. 'What are you doing with all the junk?'

Kidd worked his feet on sandal sole and vinyl tile. 'I… well, I was putting it in the apartment down the hall.'

Mr Richards walked past him, looked into 19-B. 'It doesn't matter too much.' He looked back. 'Does it?'

They went together into 19-A.

'I figure I can get all this stuff out by tonight, Mr Richards.' Kidd was relieved there was no protest. 'Then I'll get the floors and everything mopped. I'll have it really nice. She'll like it. I'll do a good job.'

Mr Richards frowned up at the dead bulbs.

'If you'd rather, I could take the stuff into the cellar.' Relaxed enough to offer, he knew the offer would be refused.

'Only if you want.' Mr Richards took a breath, and came in. His cordovan ground on the piled glass. He looked down. 'Don't see any need. To take it all the way to the cellar. I don't know what's in that cellar, anyway.' Not moving his foot, he looked at the remaining furniture. 'She'll like it. Yes.' He took his hand from his pocket. 'Why don't you get your other shoe on, boy? You'll cut your foot all to hell.'

'Yes, sir.'

Mr Richards stepped away from the sweepings, shook his head.

'Mr Richards—?'