Gilbert Sorrentino COAST OF TEXAS

Sur la côte du Texas—Apollinaire

1. Although the sky was bright blue and clarity the exact love That blank city allows at times: so that it did not seem I was In Hell I was in Hell. O love. That impairs my song.

2. Corpus Christi is no place to spend Christmas notwithstanding those avenues of palms, the white houses on the green Gulf. The old Mexicans fish off stone quais, and fish off stone quais. I ate chili and drank rye whiskey. A whole novel wrote and discarded in my head. Notwithstanding those avenues of green palms, Corpus Christi on the coast of Texas is no place to spend any time. Apollinaire himself avoided this blank city.

3. He never knew it could be so cold in the streets of that white city. Walks around insane the wind tears water from his eyes. He thinks he sees her face in the palm trees, love breathed out of a bad hotel. In his madness. His hand that touches him is hers. The palm trees the palm trees are moonlight. His heart is drowned in the Gulf. O let down your hair you. You blue water.

4. In that sunny room dreamed he lay with her, book open, his hand on his crotch. He woke to the bright day and smell of weak coffee. Walking around the room, he went walking around the room, briskly. Fuck this sun, O fuck this rotten sun, O fuck this sun, O sound of gentle bluish waves piling up. Glanced in the closet and saw her.

5. Here they are all running down in the night into the sea off the Coast of Texas. Bad dreams, yellow. He wrote stories on hotel stationery

and wept into the pillow. It serves him right he says in someone else’s voice. Dream of fame. Well the wind is very wet blowing out of Mexico. She walked out of his life dragging his heart along. In her fucking yellow blouse.

6. A man with a battered bluish face stands in the sun on the dock and tells him about books. What books! What a vision of America he has he says, a style so sweet that. The young man burning thinks of the woman he loves. All in the burning sky she is, all in the burning sky. And a whiff of orange cunt come out of Florida.

7. The interminable novel between the lines green eyes. The sheets were rumpled and he read. God they twisted their way through the pages. There was one simple arrow of a line in her voice. Coming from the dead center of each o.

This is a resort town, blanco.

8. She is almost unbearably nubile. And when I reflect on the place Where her slender legs join in absolute silk I find myself walking Around in circles outside Galveston, sure that I’ll be arrested But too out of my mind to care, crazy in the flash from the Gulf.

9. When he walked around he wished. He could see a woman. To take her place, to be with him to his imagination that spare odor. Well. He watched himself narrow in the eye, a slender young figure in a faded field jacket. A year later he was happy. Then he was unhappy for a long long time. In that wash of fearful wet air thick in the moonlight

off the Gulf received the poet’s true guerdon. Unhappy. A coal. A live coal burning through and through his life. He has given them all what he can give them

the rest died in a hotel room with no radio

10. In the pale light he sees her mouth open and the tongue come out in her heat. Nothing there but the spot where the road turns east toward Galveston. He sees her eyes catch the light catch the light. Over her his bare knees in the sand. Two cars with Louisiana plates gone up toward the glow from some diner. Her breasts free of her blouse up toward his lips a small pearl button cold against his cheek. To live through this is to live through anything. He shouts directly out of the whiskey thinning his blood. Under the streetlamp waiting

for a bus her face is gentle in the beginning rain, that was another seacoast. Grey water.

11. Everyone knows Apollinaire went mad on that hazy coast, dazed under the blue. I went mad there too. Particular articles of apparel certain girls should not be allowed to wear. Stuck in the mind. I thought of her with the bell ringing behind her voice. I thought of her with the bell. I wrote down the precise colors in an old notebook lately come across. Scent of Castile. No thing for a grown man to be up to. Well, her smile anyway was a crooked one. Crash and bang from bar to bar, fall in the water, if you could see my whole face suddenly “You’d know just how I’ve been”

12. The sun off the dusty palms clumped around the Greyhound station. He goes from the Coast of Texas to another city soon. His cigarette smoke creamy.

Fur. Long before he touched her breasts stroked the fur collar of her coat and smelled the cool lining. When he touched her breasts they were clearly as he knew they were cool in his hands he looks at yellow in the sun. No reason to leave this white city she is walking through white cold humming a metal carol the snow of course melting of course on her hair and fur

13. Why have you done this? wrote and crumpled the letter. Don’t you believe that I could have died for you? and crumpled the letter. The liquor store still open but he had plenty of liquor, My fingers are cramped holding the air that is you. Said that. It is impossible (I’m sorry for me not to write, here in my blue sport shirt in this holiday time at least to say how much I He left the paper on the little desk and leaned his hands against the wall, nothing to make or tear down his hands on the wall. Vague and broken

14. Matagorda, Seadrift, Corpus Christi. Went back into time into clear cold and a true spring. Actually smelled his fingers. Later, he understood Lorca’s despair, that white and waxy lemon. That was his heart. It was No. You can squeeze it one way or squeeze it another, smother it in the warmest of wind Once the blood has fallen out of it the blood has fallen out of it. (Kline smiling.

15. It was cinnamon that she liked? Liked Fidelio. Yellow skirts, bit her nails. Under the limes he remembered and invented memory. A woman in a tailored suit too warm for the day smiles at him moving from shade to brightness under the trees. He smiles back, certainly licorice . . . ? Probably sweating a little under the arms, old enough to be his mother, a gracious fuck. Waft of cloves.

16. He would come back out of this butter sun, walking the 2000 miles. Her hip leaning

against a tree her foot pointed in. Crawl through the snow and kiss her stockings and the collar of her blouse. Even through Georgia. He will listen to opera and Jewish jokes, get the fuck down in the slush and touch her shoes. Do without a hat in the wind off the Atlantic and weep into her crotch. He could sleep in pajamas get up to a job and eat lunch with fascists and morons, buy her boxes of Tampax. She had a crooked smile put his hands between her garters and her thighs.

© 1968 by Gilbert Sorrentino. This text copied from A Caterpillar Anthology, ed. Clayton Eshleman. New York: Anchor Books, Doubleday & Co., 1971.

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