CHARLES BUKOWSKI

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS

table of contents

1.

jam

two toughs

my German buddy

happy birthday

the telephone

begging

the feel of it

the greatest actor of our day

days like razors, nights full of rats

in and out of the dark

be kind

the man with the beautiful eyes

a strange day

Trollius and trellises

air and light and time and space

the eagle of the heart—

bright red car

moving toward the 21st century

the lady and the mountain lion

a laugh a minute

hello, Hamsun

death is smoking my cigars

hock shops

hell is a closed door

pulled down shade

before Aids

hunk of rock

poetry

dinner, 1933

such luck

flophouse

hand-outs

waiting

those mornings

everything you touch

car wash

the flashing of the odds

poetry contest

peace

the bluebird

2.

going out

the replacements

the genius

a poet in New York

no sale

this

now

in error

confession

mugged

the writer

they don’t eat like us

let me tell you

blasted apart with the first breath

Elvis lives

my buddy in valet parking at the racetrack:

see here, you

spark

the science of physiognomy

victory

Edward Sbragia

wandering in the cage

the pack

question and answer

fan letter

hold on, it’s a belly laugh

finished

zero

eyeless through space

tag up and hold

upon this time

Downtown Billy

8 count

ill

only one Cervantes

that I have known the dead

are you drinking?

“D”

in the bottom

the creative act

a suborder of naked buds

companion

you know and I know and thee know

3.

show biz

darkness & ice

the big ride

small cafe

washrag

sitting with the IBM

my buddy, the buddha

the interviewers

freaky time

the aliens

shock treatment

between races

splashing

darkling

Celine with cane and basket

no more, no less

the lost and the desperate

the bully

downers

get close enough and you can’t see

the beggars

the old horseplayer

post time

off and on

balloons

recognized

them and us

luck was not a lady

the editor

duck and forget it

snapshots at the track

x-idol

heat wave

we ain’t got no money, honey, but we got rain

crime and punishment

the soldier, his wife and the bum

Bonaparte’s Retreat

flat tire

oh, I was a ladies’ man!

inactive volcano

creative writing class

cool black air

the jackals

warm light

4.

Dinosauria, we

cut while shaving

a good job

last seat at the end

my uncle Jack

the area of pause

my first computer poem

Rossini, Mozart and Shostakovich

it’s a shame

what a writer

hangovers

they are everywhere

war

the idiot

this rejoinder

Hemingway never did this

surprise time again

young in New Orleans

the damnation of Buk

Charles the Lion-Hearted

within the dense overcast

corsage

classical music and me

transport

betrayed

torched-out

the word

shooting the moon in the eye

nirvana

an invitation

batting order:

the open canvas

in the shadow of the rose

About the Author

Other Books by Charles Bukowski

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

my wrists are rivers
my fingers are words

jam

that Harbor Freeway south through the downtown

area—I mean, it can simply become

unbelievable.

last Friday evening I was sitting there

motionless behind a wall of red taillights,

there wasn’t even first gear movement

as masses of exhaust fumes

greyed the evening air, engines overheated

and there was the smell of a clutch

burning out

somewhere—

it seemed to come from ahead of me—

from that long slow rise of freeway where

the cars were working

from first gear to neutral

again and again

and from neutral back to

first gear.

on the radio I heard the news

of that day

at least 6 times, I was

well versed in world

affairs.

the remainder of the stations played a

thin, sick music.

the classical stations refused to come in

clearly

and when they did

it was a stale repetition of standard and

tiresome works.

I turned the radio off.

a strange whirling began in my

head—it circled behind the forehead, clockwise, went past             the ears and around to the

back of the head, then back to the forehead

and around

again.

I began to wonder, is this what happens

when one goes

mad?

I considered getting out of my car.

I was in the so-called fast

lane.

I could see myself out there

out of my car

leaning against the freeway divider,

arms folded.

then I would slide down to a sitting

position, putting my head between

my legs.

I stayed in the car, bit my tongue, turned

the radio back on, willed the whirling to

stop

as I wondered if any of the others had to

battled against their

compulsions

as I did?

then the car ahead of me

MOVED

a foot, 2 feet, 3 feet!

I shifted to first gear…

there was MOVEMENT!

then I was back in neutral

BUT

we had moved from 7 to

ten feet.

hearing the world news for the

7th time,

it was still all bad

but all of us listening,

we could handle that too

because we knew

that there was nothing worse than

looking at

that same license plate

that same dumb head sticking up

from behind the headrest

in the car ahead of you

as time dissolved

as the temperature gauge leaned

more to the right

as the gas gauge leaned

more to the left

as we wondered

whose clutch was burning

out?

we were like some last, vast

final dinosaur

crawling feebly home somewhere,

somehow, maybe

to

die.

two toughs

at L.A. City College there were two toughs, me and Jed Anderson.

Anderson was one of the best running backs in the

history of the school, a real breakaway threat

anytime he got the football.

I was pretty tough physically but looked at sports

as a game for freaks.

I thought a bigger game was challenging those

who attempted to teach

us.

anyhow, Jed and I were the two biggest lights on

campus, he piled up his 60, 70 and 80 yard

runs in the night games

and during the days

slouched in my seat

I made up what I didn’t know

and what I did know

was so bad

many a teacher was made to

dance to it.

and one grand day

Jed and I

finally met.

it was at a little jukebox place

across from campus and

he was sitting with his

pals

and I was sitting with

mine.

“go on! go on! talk to him!”

my pals

urged.

I said, “fuck that gym

boy. I am one with

Nietzsche, let him come

over here!”

finally Jed got up to get a

pack of smokes from the

machine and one of my

friends asked,

“are you afraid of that

man?”

I got up and walked behind

Jed as he was reaching into the

machine

for his pack.

“hello, Jed,” I

said.

he turned: “hello,

Hank.”

then he reached into his

rear pocket,

pulled out a pint of

whiskey, handed it to

me.

I took a mighty hit,

handed it

back.

“Jed, what are you

going to do

after

L.A.C.C.?”

“I’m going to play

for Notre Dame.”

then he walked back

to his table

and I walked back

to mine.

“what’d he say? what’d

he say?”

“nothing much.”

anyhow, Jed never made it

to Notre Dame

and I never made it

anywhere

either—

the years just swept us

away

but there were others

who went

on, including one fellow

who became a famous

sports columnist

and I had to look at his

photo

for decades

in the newspaper

as I inherited those

cheap rooms

and those roaches

and those airless

dreary

nights.

but

I was still proud of that moment

back then

when Jed handed me

that pint

and

I drained

a third of it

with all the disciples

watching.

damn, there was no way

it seemed

we could ever

lose

but we did.

and it took me

3 or 4 decades to

move on just a

little.

and Jed,

if you are still here

tonight,

(I forgot to tell you

then)

here’s a thanks

for that drink.

my German buddy

tonight

drinking Singha

malt liquor from

Thailand

and listening to

Wagner

I can’t believe that

he is not in

the other

room

or around the

corner

or alive

someplace

tonight

and he is

of course

as I am taken

by the sound of

him

and little goosebumps

run along

both of my

arms

then a

chill

he’s here

now.

happy birthday

when Wagner was an

old man

a birthday party was given

in his

honor

and a couple of

youthful

incidental compositions

were played.

afterwards

he asked,

“who wrote those?”

“you did,” he was

told.

“ah,” he responded,

“it’s as I have always

suspected: death

then

does have some

virtue.”

the telephone

will bring you people

with its ring,

people who do not know what to do with

their time

and they will ache to

infect you with

this

from a distance

(although they would prefer

to actually be in the same room

to better project their nullity upon

you).

the telephone is needed for

emergency purposes only.

these people are not

emergencies, they are

calamities.

I have never welcomed the ring of a

telephone.

“hello,” I will answer

guardedly.

“this is Dwight.”

already you can feel their imbecile

yearning to invade.

they are the people-fleas that

crawl the

psyche.

“yes, what is it?”

“well, I’m in town tonight and

I thought…”

“listen, Dwight, I’m tied up, I

can’t…”

“well, maybe another

time?”

“maybe not…”

each person is only given so many

evenings

and each wasted evening is

a gross violation against the

natural course of

your only

life;

besides, it leaves an aftertaste

which often lasts two or three days

depending upon the

visitor.

the telephone is only for

emergency purposes.

it has taken me

decades

but I have finally found out

how to say

“no.”

now

don’t be concerned for them,

please:

they will simply dial another

number.

it could be

yours.

“hello,” you will

say.

and they will say,

“this is Dwight.”

and then

you

be

the kind

understanding

soul.

begging

like most of you, I’ve had so many jobs that

I feel as if I were gutted and my insides

thrown to the winds.

I’ve met some good people along the

way and also the

other kind.

yet when I think of all those

I have worked with—

even though decades have passed—

Karl

comes to mind

first.

I remember Karl: our jobs required we

both wear aprons

tied from behind and around

the neck with string.

I was Karl’s underling.

“we got an easy job,” he

told me.

each day as one by one our superiors arrived

Karl would make a slight bend at the waist,

smile, and with a nod of the head

greet each: “good morning Dr. Stein,”

or, “good morning Mr. Day” or

Mrs. Knight or if the lady was unattached

“good morning, Lilly” or Betty or Fran.

I never

spoke.

Karl seemed concerned at this and

one day he took me aside: “hey,

where the fuck else you going to get a

two hour lunch like we

do?”

“nowhere, I guess…”

“well, o.k., look, for guys like you and me,

this is as good as it can get, this is all

there is.”

I waited.

“so look, it’s hard to suck up to them at first, it

didn’t come easy for me

but after a while I realized that it

didn’t matter.

I just grew a shell.

now I’ve got my shell, got

it?”

I looked at him and sure enough he did look like he had

a shell, there was a mask-like look to his

face and the eyes were null, void and

undisturbed; I was looking at a weathered and

beaten conch.

some weeks went by.

nothing changed: Karl bowed and scraped and smiled

undaunted, perfect in his

role.

that we were perishable, perhaps didn’t occur to

him

or

that greater gods might be

watching.

I did my

work.

then, one day, Karl took me

aside again.

“listen, Dr. Morely spoke to me

about you.”

“yes?”

“he asked me what was wrong with

you.”

“what did you tell

him?”

“I told him that you were

young.”

“thanks.”

upon receiving my next check, I

quit

but

still

had to

eventually settle for another similar

job

and

viewing the

new Karls

I finally forgave them all

but not myself:

being perishable sometimes makes a

man

strange

almost

unemployable

most

obnoxious—

no servant of

free

enterprise.

the feel of it

A. Huxley died at 69,

much too early for such a

fierce talent,

and I read all his

works

but actually

Point Counter Point

did help a bit

in carrying me through

the factories and the

drunk tanks and the

unsavory

ladies.

that

book

along with Hamsun’s

Hunger

they helped a

bit.

great books are

the ones we

need.

I was astonished at

myself for liking the

Huxley book

but it did come from

such a rabid

beautiful

pessimistic

intellectualism,

and when I first

read P.C.P.

I was living in a

hotel room

with a wild and

crazy

alcoholic woman

who once threw

Pound’s Cantos

at me

and missed,

as they did

with me.

I was working

as a packer

in a light fixture

plant

and once

during a drinking

bout

I told the lady,

“here, read this!”

(referring to

Point Counter

Point.)

“ah, jam it up

your ass!” she

screamed at

me.

anyhow, 69 seemed

too early for Aldous

Huxley to

die.

but I guess it’s

just as fair

as the death of a

scrubwoman

at the same

age.

it’s just that

with those who

help us

get on through,

then

all that light

dying, it works the

gut a bit—

scrubwomen, cab drivers,

cops, nurses, bank

robbers, priests,

fishermen, fry cooks,

jockeys and the

like

be

damned.

the greatest actor of our day

he’s getting fatter and fatter,

almost bald

he has a wisp of hair

in the back

which he twists

and holds

with a rubber band.

he’s got a place in the hills

and he’s got a place in the

islands

and few people ever see

him.

some consider him the greatest

actor of our

day.

he has few friends, a

very few.

with them, his favorite

pastime is

eating.

at rare times he is reached

by telephone

usually

with an offer to act

in an exceptional (he’s

told)

motion picture.

he answers in a very soft

voice:

“oh, no, I don’t want to

make any more movies…”

“can we send you the

screenplay?”

“all right…”

then

he’s not heard from

again.

usually

what he and his few friends

do

after eating

(if the night is cold)

is to have a few drinks

and watch the screenplays

burn

in the fireplace.

or

after eating (on

warm evenings)

after a few

drinks

the screenplays

are taken

frozen

out of cold

storage.

he hands some

to his friends

keeps some

then

together

from the veranda

they toss them

like flying saucers

far out

into the spacious

canyon

below.

then

they all go

back in

knowing

instinctively

that the screenplays

were

bad. (at least,

he senses it and

they

accept

that.)

it’s a real good

world

up there:

well-earned, self-sufficient

and

hardly

dependent

upon the

variables.

there’s

all that time

to eat

drink

and

wait on death

like

everybody

else.

days like razors, nights full of rats

as a very young man I divided an equal amount of time between

the bars and the libraries; how I managed to provide for

my other ordinary needs is the puzzle; well, I simply didn’t

bother too much with that—

if I had a book or a drink then I didn’t think too much of

other things—fools create their own

paradise.

in the bars, I thought I was a tough, I broke things, fought

other men, etc.

in the libraries it was another matter: I was quiet, went

from room to room, didn’t so much read entire books

as parts of them: medicine, geology, literature and

philosophy. psychology, math, history, other things, put me

off. with music I was more interested in the music and in the

lives of the composers than in the technical aspects…

however, it was with the philosophers that I felt a brotherhood:

Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, even old hard-to-read Kant;

I found Santayana, who was very popular at the time, to be

limp and a bore; Hegel you really had to dig for, especially

with a hangover; there are many I read who I have forgotten,

perhaps properly so, but I remember one fellow who wrote   an

entire book in which he proved that the moon was not there

and he did it so well that afterwards you thought, he’s

absolutely right, the moon is not there.

how the hell is a young man going to deign to work an

8 hour day when the moon isn’t even there?

what else

might be missing?

and

I didn’t like literature so much as I did the literary

critics; they were real pricks, those guys; they used

fine language, beautiful in its way, to call other

critics, other writers, assholes. they

perked me up.

but it was the philosophers who satisfied

that need

that lurked somewhere within my confused skull: wading

through their excesses and their

clotted vocabulary

they still often

stunned

leaped out

with a flaming gambling statement that appeared to be

absolute truth or damned near

absolute truth,

and this certainty was what I was searching for in a daily

life that seemed more like a piece of

cardboard.

what great fellows those old dogs were, they got me past

days like razors and nights full of rats; and women

bargaining like auctioneers from hell.

my brothers, the philosophers, they spoke to me unlike

anybody on the streets or anywhere else; they

filled an immense void.

such good boys, ah, such good

boys!

yes, the libraries helped; in my other temple, the

bars, it was another matter, more simplistic, the

language and the way was

different…

library days, bar nights.

the nights were alike,

there’s some fellow sitting nearby, maybe not a

bad sort, but for me he doesn’t shine right,

there’s a gruesome deadness there—I think of my father,

of schoolteachers, of faces on coins and bills, of dreams

about murderers with dull eyes; well,

somehow this fellow and I get to exchanging glances,

a fury slowly begins to gather: we are enemies, cat and

dog, priest and atheist, fire and water; tension builds,

block piled upon block, waiting for the crash; our hands

fold and unfold, we drink, now, finally with a

purpose:

his face turns to me:

“sumpin’ ya don’t like, buddy?”

“yeah. you.”

“wanna do sumpin’ about it?”

“certainly.”

we finish our drinks, rise, move to the back of the

bar, out into the alley; we

turn, face each other.

I say to him, “there’s nothing but space between us. you

care to close that

space?”

he rushes toward me and somehow it’s a part of the part of the

part.

in and out of the dark

my wife likes movie houses, the popcorn and soft drinks, the

settling into seats, she finds a child’s delight in

this and I am happy for her—but really, I myself, I must have

come from another place, I must have been a mole in another

life, something that burrowed and hid alone:

the other people crowded in the seats, near and far, give me

feelings that I dislike; it’s stupid, maybe, but there it

is; and then

there’s the darkness and then the

giant human faces, bodies, that move about on the screen, they

speak and we

listen.

of one hundred movies there’s one that’s fair, one that’s good

and ninety eight that are very bad.

most movies start badly and steadily get

worse;

if you can believe the actions and speech of the

characters

you might even believe that the popcorn you chew also

has a meaning of

sorts.

(well, it might be that people see so many movies

that when they finally see one not

so bad as the others, they think it’s

great. an Academy Award means that you don’t stink

quite as much as your cousin.)

the movie ends and we are out in the street, moving

toward the car; “well,” says my wife, “it wasn’t as

good as they say.”

“no,” I say, “it wasn’t.”

“there were a few good parts, though,” she replies.

“yeah,” I answer.

we are at the car, get in, then I am driving us out

of that part of town; we look around at the night;

the night looks good.

“you hungry?” she asks.

“yes. you?”

we stop at a signal; I watch the red light;

I could eat that red light—anything, anything at

all to fill the void; millions of dollars spent to create

something more terrible than the actual lives of

most living things; one should never have to pay an

admission to hell.

the light changes and we escape,

forward.

be kind

we are always asked

to understand the other person’s

viewpoint

no matter how

out-dated

foolish or

obnoxious.

one is asked

to view

their total error

their life-waste

with

kindliness,

especially if they are

aged.

but age is the total of

our doing.

they have aged

badly

because they have

lived

out of focus,

they have refused to

see.

not their fault?

whose fault?

mine?

I am asked to hide

my viewpoint

from them

for fear of their

fear.

age is no crime

but the shame

of a deliberately

wasted

life

among so many

deliberately

wasted

lives

is.

the man with the beautiful eyes

when we were kids

there was a strange house

all the shades were

always

drawn

and we never heard voices

in there

and the yard was full of

bamboo

and we liked to play in

the bamboo

pretend we were

Tarzan

(although there was no

Jane).

and there was a

fish pond

a large one

full of the

fattest goldfish

you ever saw

and they were

tame.

they came to the

surface of the water

and took pieces of

bread

from our hands.

our parents had

told us:

“never go near that

house.”

so, of course,

we went.

we wondered if anybody

lived there.

weeks went by and we

never saw

anybody.

then one day

we heard

a voice

from the house

“YOU GOD DAMNED

WHORE!”

it was a man’s

voice.

then the screen

door

of the house was

flung open

and the man

walked

out.

he was holding a

fifth of whiskey

in his right

hand.

he was about

30.

he had a cigar

in his

mouth,

needed a

shave.

his hair was

wild and

uncombed

and he was

barefoot

in undershirt

and pants.

but his eyes

were

bright.

they blazed

with

brightness

and he said,

“hey, little

gentlemen,

having a good

time, I

hope?”

then he gave a

little laugh

and walked

back into the

house.

we left,

went back to my

parents’ yard

and thought

about it.

our parents,

we decided,

had wanted us

to stay away

from there

because they

never wanted us

to see a man

like

that,

a strong natural

man

with

beautiful

eyes.

our parents

were ashamed

that they were

not

like that

man,

that’s why they

wanted us

to stay

away.

but

we went back

to that house

and the bamboo

and the tame

goldfish.

we went back

many times

for many

weeks

but we never

saw

or heard

the man

again.

the shades were

down

as always

and it was

quiet.

then one day

as we came back from

school

we saw the

house.

it had burned

down,

there was nothing

left,

just a smoldering

twisted black

foundation

and we went to

the fish pond

and there was

no water

in it

and the fat

orange goldfish

were dead

there,

drying out.

we went back to

my parents’ yard

and talked about

it

and decided that

our parents had

burned their

house down,

had killed

them

had killed the

goldfish

because it was

all too

beautiful,

even the bamboo

forest had

burned.

they had been

afraid of

the man with the

beautiful

eyes.

and

we were afraid

then

that

all throughout our lives

things like that

would

happen,

that nobody

wanted

anybody

to be

strong and

beautiful

like that,

that

others would never

allow it,

and that

many people

would have to

die.

a strange day

it was one of those hot and tiring days at Hollywood

Park

with a huge crowd, a

tiring, rude, dumb

crowd.

I won the last race and stayed to collect and when I

got to my car

there was a massive jam of traffic attempting to

work its way out of there.

so I took my shoes off, sat and waited, turned on the

radio, lucked onto some classical music, found

a pint of Scotch in the glove compartment, uncapped

it, had a

hit.

I’m going to let them all get out of here, I

thought, then I’ll

go.

I found ¾’s of a cigar, lit it, had another hit

of Scotch.

I listened to the music, smoked, drank the

Scotch and watched the losers

leave.

there was even a little crap game going

about 100 yards to the

east

then that

broke up.

I decided to finish the

pint.

I did, then stretched out on the

seat.

I don’t know how long I

slept

but when I awakened it was dark and

the parking lot was

empty.

I decided not to put on my shoes, started the car

and drove out of

there….

when I got back to my place I could hear the phone

ringing.

as I put the key in the door and opened it,

the phone kept

ringing.

I walked over, picked up the

phone.

“hello?”

“you son of a bitch, where have you

been?”

“the racetrack.”

“the racetrack? it’s 12:30 a.m.! I’ve been

phoning since

7 p.m.!”

“I just got in from the

racetrack.”

“you got some woman

there?”

“no.”

“I don’t believe you!”

she hung up.

I walked to the refrigerator, got a beer, went to

the bathroom, let the water run in the

tub.

I finished the beer, got another, opened it and

climbed into the

tub.

the phone rang

again.

I got out of the tub with my beer and

dripping away

I walked to the phone, picked it

up.

“hello?”

“you son of a bitch, I still don’t

believe you!”

she hung up.

I walked back to the tub with my beer,

leaving another trail of

water.

as I got back into the tub

the phone rang

again.

I let it ring, counting the

rings: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,

10,11,12,13,14,15,

16…

she hung up.

then, perhaps, 3 or 4 minutes

passed.

the phone rang

again.

I counted the rings:

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,

9…

then it was

quiet.

about then I remembered I had

left my shoes in the

car.

no matter, except I only had

one pair.

chances were, though, that nobody

would ever want to steal that

car.

I got out of the tub for another

beer,

leaving another trail

behind me.

it was the end of a

long

long

day.

Trollius and trellises

of course, I may die in the next ten minutes

and I’m ready for that

but what I’m really worried about is

that my editor-publisher might retire

even though he is ten years younger than

I.

it was just 25 years ago (I was at that ripe

old age of 45)

when we began our unholy alliance to

test the literary waters,

neither of us being much

known.

I think we had some luck and still have some

of same

yet

the odds are pretty fair

that he will opt for warm and pleasant

afternoons

in the garden

long before I.

writing is its own intoxication

while publishing and editing,

attempting to collect bills

carries its own

attrition

which also includes dealing with the

petty bitchings and demands

of many

so-called genius darlings who are

not.

I won’t blame him for getting

out

and hope he sends me photos of his

Rose Lane, his

Gardenia Avenue.

will I have to seek other

promulgators?

that fellow in the Russian

fur hat?

or that beast in the East

with all that hair

in his ears, with those wet and

greasy lips?

or will my editor-publisher

upon exiting for that world of Trollius and

trellis

hand over the

machinery

of his former trade to a

cousin, a

daughter or

some Poundian from Big

Sur?

or will he just pass the legacy on

to the

Shipping Clerk

who will rise like

Lazarus,

fingering new-found

importance?

one can imagine terrible

things:

“Mr. Chinaski, all your work

must now be submitted in

Rondo form

and

typed

triple-spaced on rice

paper.”

power corrupts,

life aborts

and all you

have left

is a

bunch of

warts.

“no, no, Mr. Chinaski:

Rondo form!”

“hey, man,” I’ll ask,

“haven’t you heard of

the thirties?”

“the thirties? what’s

that?”

my present editor-publisher

and I

at times

did discuss the thirties,

the Depression

and

some of the little tricks it

taught us—

like how to endure on almost

nothing

and move forward

anyhow.

well, John, if it happens enjoy your

divertissement to

plant husbandry,

cultivate and aerate

between

bushes, water only in the

early morning, spread

shredding to discourage

weed growth

and

as I do in my writing:

use plenty of

manure.

and thank you

for locating me there at

5124 DeLongpre Avenue

somewhere between

alcoholism and

madness.

together we

laid down the gauntlet

and there are takers

even at this late date

still to be

found

as the fire sings

through the

trees.

air and light and time and space

“—you know, I’ve either had a family, a job, something

has always been in the

way

but now

I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this

place, a large studio, you should see the space and

the light.

for the first time in my life I’m going to have a place and the time to

create.”

no baby, if you’re going to create

you’re going to create whether you work

16 hours a day in a coal mine

or

you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children

while you’re on

welfare,

you’re going to create with part of your mind and your

body blown

away,

you’re going to create blind

crippled

demented,

you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your

back while

the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,

flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space

have nothing to do with it

and don’t create anything

except maybe a longer life to find

new excuses

for.

the eagle of the heart—

what will they be writing about 2,000 years from

now

if they are

here?

now

I drink cabernet sauvignon while

listening to

Bach: it’s

most curious: this

continuing death

this

continuing life

as

I look at this hand

holding a cigarette

I feel as if

I have been here

forever.

now

troops with bayonets

sack

the town below.

my dog, Tony, smiles at

me.

it is well

to feel good

for no reason;

or

with a limited

choice to

choose

anyhow;

or with a little love,

not to buckle to

hatred.

faith, brother, not in the

gods

but in

yourself:

don’t ask,

tell.

I tell you

such fine

music

waits

in the

shadows

of

hell.

bright red car

I try to avoid speed duels on the freeway but the curious thing

is

that all my speeding tickets are when I am quietly driving along on

my

own.

when I am in a high speed duel, darting in and out of lanes

at near 100 m.p.h.

the police are never

about.

when I get tagged for speeding it is for cruising along,

day-dreaming, at a mere 70

m.p.h.

I received 3 such nonsensical tickets in 3 weeks so

I laid low for some time—2 years, in fact, but today

out there

there was a fellow in a bright red car, I have no idea what

model or kind

and I have no idea of how it all started but I believe that

I started it:

I was in the fast lane going about 70

and I caught the flash of bright red in my rear view and

as he swung out to pass me on the right

he was doing 75

and there was time for him to pass

then cut into the fast lane ahead of me

but something made me hit the throttle and cut him

off

locking him in behind an old lady with a CHRIST

SAVES bumper sticker.

this seemed to piss him no end

and next I knew he had swung over on my bumper,

so close that his windshield and my taillights

seemed one.

this pissed me no end and I was being blocked by a

green Volks directly ahead

but I cut right through an opening and shot

ahead.

bright red went wild, spotted the far lane open,

roared over and gunned it

along.

after that, it was just me and bright red

jockeying for spots.

he would garner a lead, then with a crazy gamble

of lane change I would regain the

lead.

during this duel my destination was forgotten and I’m sure his was

too.

watching him, I couldn’t help but admire his driving

skill; he took a few more chances than I

but I had a little bit the better machine

so it

just about evened out.

then

suddenly

we were alone: a freak break in the traffic

had set us free together

and we really opened

up.

he had a short lead but my machine slowly gained; I

inched up near him,

then I was at his side and I couldn’t help but

look over.

he was a young Japanese-American, maybe 18, 19

and I looked at him and

laughed.

I saw him check me out.

he saw a 70 year old white man

with a face like

Frankenstein.

the young man took his foot off the throttle and

dropped back.

I let him go.

I turned the radio

on.

I was 18 miles past my destination but it

didn’t matter.

it was a beautiful sunny day.

moving toward the 21st century

it was a New Year’s Eve party at my place

I think.

I was standing holding a drink when

this slender young fellow walked up

he was a bit drunk he said

“Hank, I met a woman who said

she was married to you for 2

years.”

“really?

what was her

name?”

“Lola

Edwards.”

“never heard of

her.”

“ah, come on, man, she

said…”

“don’t know her,

baby…”

in fact I didn’t know who

he was…

I drained my drink walked to the kitchen

poured a refill

I looked around yes, I was at my place

I recognized the

kitchen.

another

Happy New Year.

Jesus.

I walked out to face the

people.

the lady and the mountain lion

it was hardly a wilderness area

but it was countryside

and there had been a paucity of

rainfall—also some housing

construction on the

hillsides.

small game was dying

out.

the coyotes were the first of

the famished to

arrive

looking for

chickens

cats

anything.

in fact, a group attacked

a man on horseback

tearing his arm

but he

escaped.

then

in a park

there was the lady who

left her car to

go to the public

restroom.

she had closed the stall

door

when she heard a

soft

sound,

the stealth of

padded

feet.

then

as she sat there

the mountain lion stuck

his head under the

stall door.

a truly beautiful

animal.

then

the head withdrew, the cat

knocked over a trash can, circled,

emitted a slow

growl.

the lady climbed up

on the toilet

then grasped an overhead

pipe

and

swung herself completely up

(fear creates abnormal

acts) and sat where

she could watch

the cat.

at once

the cat put his

paws up

on the wash basin

stuck his head in

there

and lapped at a dripping

spigot.

then

he sank

low upon the floor

crouched

facing the doorway

then

zing

was gone

out of there.

then

at last

the lady began

screaming.

when the people

arrived

the cat was nowhere to be

seen.

the story made the

newspapers and the television

stations.

the story that won’t be told is

that the lady

will never go to the bathroom

again

without thinking of a

mountain

lion.

a truly beautiful

animal.

a laugh a minute

come on, let’s go see him, this old guy is a

kick in the ass, 50 years old, he sits around

in his shorts and underwear

drinking wine out of this chipped white

cup.

he sits with the shades pulled down and

he’s never owned a tv set.

the only time he goes out is for more

wine

or to the racetrack in his baby blue

’58 Comet.

you get there and he’s distraught, some woman

has always left forever and

he pretends to play it with bravado but

his little slit eyes are filled with

pain.

he’ll pour drinks all around, he just gulps

that crap down and then sometimes he’ll

get up and puke.

it’s really something. you

can hear him for blocks.

then he’ll come out and pour another

drink.

he’ll go on and on drinking

and then once in a while he’ll say something

crazy like, “anything 3 dogs can do, 4 dogs

can do better!”

other things too.

or he’ll smash a glass or a bottle against

the wall.

he worked as an orderly in a

hospital for 15 years

then quit.

he never sleeps at night.

and for a guy that ugly

I don’t see how he gets all his

women.

and he’s jealous.

just look at one of his women

and he’ll swing on you.

then he gets drunk and tells crazy

stories and sings.

and guess what? he writes

poetry.

come on, let’s go see him, this old guy

is a kick in the

ass!

hello, Hamsun

after two-and-one-half bottles

that have not strengthened my saddened

heart

walking from this drunken

darkness

toward the bedroom

thinking of Hamsun who

ate his own flesh to

gain time to

write

I trundle into the other

room

an old

man

a hellfish in the night

swimming upward

sideways

down.

death is smoking my cigars

you know: I’m drunk once again

here

listening to Tchaikovsky

on the radio.

Jesus, I heard him 47 years

ago

when I was a starving writer

and here he is

again

and now I am a minor success as

a writer

and death is walking

up and down

this room

smoking my cigars

taking hits of my

wine

as Tchaik is working away

at the Pathétique,

it’s been some journey

and any luck I’ve had was

because I rolled the dice

right:

I starved for my art, I starved to

gain 5 god-damned minutes, 5 hours,

5 days—

I just wanted to get the word

down;

fame, money, didn’t matter:

I wanted the word down

and they wanted me at a punch press,

a factory assembly line

they wanted me to be a stock boy in a

department store.

well, death says, as he walks by,

I’m going to get you anyhow

no matter what you’ve been:

writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher,

sky-diver, I’m going to get

you…

o.k. baby, I tell him.

we drink together now

as one a.m. slides to 2

a.m. and

only he knows the

moment, but I worked a con

on him: I got my

5 god-damned minutes

and much

more.

hock shops

were always all right with me

because when I tried to sell something in the street

there were no takers.

of course, the shops offered far less than real value;

they had to profit on the

resale,

but at least, they were

there.

my favorite shop was a place in Los Angeles—

this fellow would lead me to a booth where

he would gather a black curtain all around

us,

it slid on little rings

and then

we would be enclosed.

and it always went like

this:

“show me,” he would

say.

I would place the item on the table under

the very strong

light.

he would examine the item, then look at me

for some time.

“I can’t give you very much for

this.”

another pause, then he would name his

price.

the offer was always more than I

expected.

“I’ll take $10,” I would name a

higher price.

“no,” he would answer, “in fact…”

and then he would mention a lower price

than his original

offer.

at times I would attempt to joke with

him:

“if I stay here long enough, I’ll be

paying you…”

he wouldn’t smile.

“we don’t have to do business at

all.”

“listen, I’ll accept your first offer…”

“very well,” he would say,

“but I will lose on

this…”

then he would write out the

pawn ticket and give me the

money.

“please be sure to read your ticket,

there are

stipulations.”

then he would turn off the light

and pull the black curtain

away…

sometimes I was able to retrieve one

of the items

but eventually they all returned

forever.

also, I found out that the one thing

you could sell in the bars and on the

street were

hock shop tickets.

the hock shops helped me through some terrible

times and I was glad they were

there when nothing else

was, and that booth with the black

curtain: what a marvelous sanctuary,

a place to give up something for

something else that you needed

much more.

how many typewriters, suits, gloves and

watches I left in the hock shops

I have no

idea,

but those places were always

all right

with me.

hell is a closed door

even when starving

the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:

I only believed that the editors were

truly stupid

and I just went on and wrote more and

more.

I even considered rejects as

action; the worst was the empty

mailbox.

if I had a weakness or a dream

it was

that I only wanted to see one of these

editors

who rejected me,

to see his or her face, the way they

dressed, the way they walked across a

room, the sound of their voice, the look

in their eye…

just one look at one of

them—

you see, when all you look at is

a piece of printed paper

telling you that you

aren’t very good,

then there is a tendency

to think that the editors

are more god-like than

they are.

hell is a closed door

when you’re starving for your goddamned art

but sometimes you feel at least like having a

peek through the

keyhole.

young or old, good or bad,

I don’t think anything dies as slow and

as hard as a

writer.

pulled down shade

what I like about you

she told me

is that you’re crude—

look at you sitting there

a beercan in your hand

and a cigar in your mouth

and look at

your dirty hairy belly

sticking out from

under your shirt.

you’ve got your shoes off

and you’ve got a hole

in your right stocking

with the big toe

sticking out.

you haven’t shaved in

4 or 5 days.

your teeth are yellow

and your eyebrows

hang down

all twisted

and you’ve got enough

scars

to scare the shit

out of anybody.

there’s always

a ring

in your bathtub

your telephone

is covered with

grease

and

half the crap in

your refrigerator is

rotten.

you never

wash your car.

you’ve got newspapers

a week old

on the floor.

you read dirty

magazines

and you don’t have

a tv

but you order

deliveries from the

liquor store

and you tip

good.

and best of all

you don’t push

a woman to

go to bed

with you.

you seem hardly

interested

and when I talk to you

you don’t

say anything

you just

look around

the room or

scratch your

neck

like you don’t

hear me.

you’ve got an old

wet towel in

the sink

and a photo of

Mussolini

on the wall

and you never

complain

about anything

and you never

ask questions

and I’ve

known you for

6 months

but I have

no idea

who you are.

you’re like

some

pulled down shade

but that’s what

I like about

you:

your crudeness:

a woman can

drop

out of your

life and

forget you

real fast.

a woman

can’t go anywhere

but UP

after

leaving you,

honey.

you’ve got to

be

the best thing

that ever

happened

to

a girl

who’s between

one guy

and the next

and has nothing

to do

at the moment.

this fucking

Scotch is

great.

let’s play

Scrabble.

before Aids

I’m glad I got to them

all, I’m glad I got so many of them

in.

I flipped them

poked them

gored them.

so many high-heeled shoes

under my bed

it looked like a January

Clearance Sale.

the cheap hotel rooms,

the drunken fights,

the phones ringing,

the walls banging

I was

wild

red-eyed

big-balled

unshaven

poor

foul-mouthed

I laughed

plenty

and I picked them off

the barstools

like

ripe plums.

dirty sheets

bad whiskey

bad breath

cheap cigars

and to hell with the next

morning.

I always slept with my

wallet under my

pillow

bedded down with the

depressed and the

crazies.

I was barred from half the

hotels in

Los Angeles.

I’m glad I got to them all,

I plugged and banged and

sang and

some of them

sang with me

on those glorious

3 a.m. mornings.

when the cops

arrived, that was

grand,

we barricaded the doors

and taunted

them

and they never waited around

until noon

(checking-out time) to

arrest us,

we weren’t that

important

but

I thought we were

walking toward the bar,

and what a place the bar was

around noon, so quiet and

empty,

a place to begin

again,

to buck up with a quiet

beer,

looking out across at the

park

with the ducks over there

and the tall trees

over there.

so,

always broke but always

money from somewhere,

I waited

getting ready to

plug and bang and poke

and sing again

in those good old times

in those very very very

good old times

before Aids.

hunk of rock

Nina was the hardest of them

all,

the worst woman I had known

up to that moment

and I was sitting in front of

my secondhand black and white

tv

watching the news

when I heard a suspicious

sound in the kitchen

and I ran out there

and saw her with

a full bottle of whiskey—

a 5th—

and she had it and

was headed for the back porch

door

but I caught her and

grabbed at the bottle.

“give me that bottle, you

fucking whore!”

and we wrestled for the

bottle

and let me tell you

she gave me a good fight

for it

but

I got it away from her

and I told her to

get her ass out of

there.

she lived in the same place

in the back

upstairs.

I locked the door

took the bottle and a

glass

went out to the couch

sat down and

opened the bottle and

poured myself a good

one.

I shut off the tv and

sat there

thinking about what a

hard number

Nina was.

I came up with

at least

a dozen lousy things

she had done

to me.

what a whore.

what a hunk of rock.

I sat there drinking

the whiskey

and wondering

what I was doing

with Nina.

then there was a

knock on the

door.

it was Nina’s friend,

Helga.

“where’s Nina?”

she asked.

“she tried to steal

my whiskey, I

ran her ass

out of here.”

“she said to meet

her here.”

“what for?”

“she said me and her

were going to do it

in front of you

for $50.”

“$25.”

“she said $50.”

“well, she’s not

here…want a

drink?”

“sure…”

I got Helga a glass

poured her a

whiskey.

she took a

hit.

“maybe,” she said,

“I ought to go get

Nina.”

“I don’t want to see

her.”

“why not?”

“she’s a whore.”

Helga finished her

drink and I poured

her another.

she took a

hit.

“Benny calls me a

whore, I’m no

whore.”

Benny was the guy

she was shacked

with.

“I know you’re no

whore, Helga.”

“thanks. Ain’t ya got no

music?”

“just the radio…”

she saw it

got up

turned it

on.

some music came

blaring out.

Helga began to

dance

holding her whiskey

glass in one

hand.

she wasn’t a good

dancer

she looked

ridiculous.

she stopped

drained her drink

rolled her glass along the

rug

then ran toward

me

dropped to her knees

unzipped me

and then

she was down

there

doing tricks.

I drained my

drink

poured another.

she was

good.

she had a college

degree

some place back

East.

“get it, Helga, get

it!”

there was a loud

knock

on the front

door.

“HANK, IS HELGA

THERE?”

“WHO?”

“HELGA!”

“JUST A MINUTE!”

“THIS IS NINA, I WAS

SUPPOSED TO MEET

HELGA HERE, WE HAVE A

LITTLE SURPRISE FOR

YOU!”

“YOU TRIED TO STEAL

MY WHISKEY, YOU

WHORE!”

“HANK, LET ME

IN!”

“get it, Helga, get

it!”

“HANK!”

“Helga, you fucking whore…

Helga! Helga! Helga!!”

I pulled away and

got up.

“let her in.”

I went to the

bathroom.

when I came out they

were both sitting there

drinking and smoking

laughing about

something.

then they

saw me.

“50 bucks,” said Nina.

“25 bucks,” I said.

“we won’t do it

then.”

“don’t then.”

Nina inhaled

exhaled.

“all right, you

cheap bastard, 25

bucks!”

Nina stood up and

began taking her

clothes off.

she was the hardest

of them

all.

Helga stood up and

began taking her

clothes off.

I poured a

drink.

“sometimes I wonder

what the hell is

going on

around here,” I

said.

“don’t worry about

it, Daddy, just

get with it!”

“just what am I

supposed to

do?”

“just do

whatever the fuck

you feel

like doing,”

said Nina

her big ass

blazing

in the

lamplight.

poetry

it

takes

a lot of

desperation

dissatisfaction

and

disillusion

to

write

a

few

good

poems.

it’s not

for

everybody

either to

write

it

or even to

read

it.

dinner, 1933

when my father ate

his lips became

greasy

with food.

and when he ate

he talked about how

good

the food was

and that

most other people

didn’t eat

as good

as we

did.

he liked to

sop up

what was left

on his plate

with a piece of

bread,

meanwhile making

appreciative sounds

rather like

half-grunts.

he slurped his

coffee

making loud

bubbling

sounds.

then he’d put

the cup

down:

“dessert? is it

jello?”

my mother would

bring it

in a large bowl

and my father would

spoon it

out.

as it plopped

in the dish

the jello made

strange sounds,

almost fart-like

sounds.

then came the

whipped cream,

mounds of it

on the

jello.

“ah! jello and

whipped cream!”

my father sucked the

jello and whipped

cream

off his spoon—

it sounded as if it

was entering a

wind

tunnel.

finished with

that

he would wipe his

mouth

with a huge white

napkin,

rubbing hard

in circular

motions,

the napkin almost

hiding his

entire

face.

after that

out came the

Camel

cigarettes.

he’d light one

with a wooden

kitchen match,

then place the

match,

still burning,

onto an

ashtray.

then a slurp of

coffee, the cup

back down, and a good

drag on the

Camel.

“ah that was a

good

meal!”

moments later

in my bedroom

on my bed

in the dark

the food that I

had eaten

and what I had

seen

was already

making me

ill.

the only good

thing

was

listening to

the crickets

out there,

out there

in another world

I didn’t

live

in.

such luck

we were at this table,

men and women,

after dinner.

somehow

the conversation got

around to

PMS.

one of the ladies

stated firmly that

the only cure for

PMS

was old

age.

there were other

remarks

that I have

forgotten,

except for one

which came from this

German guest

once married,

now divorced.

also, I had seen

him with

any number of

beautiful young

girlfriends.

anyhow, after quietly

listening

to our conversation

for some time

he asked us,

“what’s PMS?”

now here was one

truly touched

by

the angels.

the light was so

bright

we

all looked

away.

flophouse

you haven’t lived

until you’ve been in a

flophouse

with nothing but one

light bulb

and 56 men

squeezed together

on cots

with everybody

snoring

at once

and some of those

snores

so

deep and

gross and

unbelievable—

dark

snotty

gross

subhuman

wheezings

from hell

itself.

your mind

almost breaks

under those

death-like

sounds

and the

intermingling

odors:

hard

unwashed socks

pissed and

shitted

underwear

and over it all

slowly circulating

air

much like that

emanating from

uncovered

garbage

cans.

and those

bodies

in the dark

fat and

thin

and

bent

some

legless

armless

some

mindless

and worst of

all:

the total

absence of

hope

it shrouds

them

covers them

totally.

it’s not

bearable.

you get

up

go out

walk the

streets

up and

down

sidewalks

past buildings

around the

corner

and back

up

the same

street

thinking

those men

were all

children

once

what has happened

to

them?

and what has

happened

to

me?

it’s dark

and cold

out

here.

hand-outs

sometimes I am hit

for change

3 or 4 times

in twenty minutes

and nine times out of

ten I’ll

give.

the time or two

that I don’t

I have an instinctive

reaction

not to

and I

don’t

but mostly I

dig and

give

but each time

I can’t help but

remember

the many times

hollow-eyed

my skin tight to the

ribs

my mind airy and

mad

I never asked

anybody

for anything

and it wasn’t

pride

it was simply because

I didn’t respect

them

didn’t regard them

as worthy human

beings.

they were the

enemy

and they still are

as I dig

in

and

give.

waiting

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles

where every 3rd lot was vacant

and it was a short ride to the orange

groves—

if you had a car and the

gas.

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles

too young to be a man and too old to

be a boy.

hard times.

a neighbor tried to rob our

house, my father caught him

climbing through the

window,

held him there in the dark

on the floor:

“you rotten son of a

bitch!”

“Henry, Henry, let me go,

let me go!”

“you son of a bitch, I’ll kill

you!”

my mother phoned the police.

another neighbor set his house on fire

in an attempt to collect the

insurance.

he was investigated and

jailed.

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles,

nothing to do, nowhere to go, listening to

the terrified talk of our parents

at night:

“what will we do? what will we

do?”

“god, I don’t know…”

starving dogs in the alleys, skin taut

across ribs, hair falling out, tongues

out, such sad eyes, sadder than any sadness

on earth.

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles,

the men of the neighborhood were quiet

and the women were like pale

statues.

the parks full of socialists,

communists, anarchists, standing on the park

benches, orating, agitating.

the sun came down through a clear sky and

the ocean was clean

and we were

neither men nor

boys.

we fed the dogs leftover pieces of dry hard

bread

which they ate gratefully,

eyes shining in

wonder,

tails waving at such

luck

as

World War II moved toward us,

even then, during those

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles.

those mornings

I still remember those New Orleans rats

out on the balcony railings

in the dark of early morning

as I stood waiting my turn at the

crapper.

there were always two or three

big ones

just sitting there—sometimes they’d

move quickly then

stop and sit there.

I looked at them and they looked at

me.

they showed no fear.

at last the crapper door would open

and out would walk

one of the tenants

and he always looked worse than

the rats

and then he’d be gone

down the hallway

and I’d go into the still-stinking

crapper

with my hangover.

and almost always

when I came out

the rats would be gone.

as soon as it got a little light

they would

vanish.

and then

the world would be

mine,

I’d walk down the stairway

and into it

and my low-wage

pitiful

job

while remembering the

rats,

how it was better for them

than for

me.

I walked to work as the sun

came up hot

and the whores slept

like

babies.

everything you touch

putting on your torn clothes in an old New Orleans roominghouse,

you and your stockboy soul,

then rolling your little green wagon past the salesgirls who

took no notice of you, those girls dreaming of bigger

game with their tiny rectangular

brains.

or in Los Angeles, coming in from your shipping clerk job at

an auto parts warehouse, taking the elevator up to 319 to find

your woman sprawled out on the bed, drunk at

6 p.m.

you were never any good at picking them, you always got the

leftovers, the crazies, the alkies, the pill-freaks.

maybe that was all you could get and maybe you were all they

could get.

you went to the bars and found more alkies, pill-freaks, crazies.

all they had to show you were a pair of well-turned ankles in

spike-heeled shoes.

you thumped up and down on beds with them as if you had discovered

the meaning of

existence.

then there was this day at work when Larry the salesman came down the

aisle with his big belly and his little button eyes, Larry always

walked loudly on leather-soled shoes and he was almost always

whistling.

he stopped whistling and stood at your shipping table as you

worked.

then he began rocking back and forth, he had this habit and

he stood there rocking, observing you, he was one of those jokers, you

know, and then he began laughing, you were sick from a long crazy

night, needed a shave, you were dressed in a torn shirt.

“what is it, Larry?” you asked.

and then he said, “Hank, everything you touch turns to shit!”

you couldn’t argue with him about that.

car wash

got out, fellow said, “hey!” walked toward

me, we shook hands, he slipped me 2 red

tickets for free car washes, “find you later,”

I told him, walked on through to waiting

area with wife, we sat on outside bench.

black fellow with a limp came up, said,

“hey, man, how’s it going?”

I answered, “fine, bro, you makin’ it?”

“no problem,” he said, then walked off to

dry down a Caddy.

“these people know you?” my wife asked.

“no.”

“how come they talk to you?”

“they like me, people have always liked me,

it’s my cross.”

then our car was finished, fellow flipped

his rag at me, we got up, got to the

car, I slipped him a buck, we got in, I

started the engine, the foreman walked

up, big guy with dark shades, huge guy,

he smiled a big one, “good to see you,

man!”

I smiled back, “thanks, but it’s your party,

man!”

I pulled out into traffic, “they know you,”

said my wife.

“sure,” I said, “I’ve been there.”

the flashing of the odds

parking lot attendant, Bobby, was funny,

wise-cracking, laughing, was

good at it, he was an original,

sometimes when I was down

listening to Bobby brought me back

up.

didn’t see him for 3 weeks, asked the

other attendants but they didn’t know

or made things up.

drove in today and there was

Bobby, his uniform wrinkled, he was just

standing there while the others

worked.

approached him and he seemed to

recognize me, then spoke: “got all

stressed out driving here, it took me

3 hours!”

he wasn’t laughing, had grown suddenly

fat, his belt buckle was

unfastened, I buckled him up, he

had a 3 day beard,

his

hair was grey, his face wrinkled, his

eyes stuck in a backwash, 20 years

lost in 3 weeks.

“good to see you, Bobby.”

“yeah, sure, when you going to buy

this place?”

he was talking about the

racetrack.

I walked across the lot and into

the track, took the escalator

up, reached the top floor, walked

toward the service stand.

Betty saw me and got my coffee

poured.

“you ready for a big day?”

she asked.

“I’m ready for any kind of

day.”

“you come here to win, don’t

you?”

“I come here not to

lose.”

I took my coffee to a seat

facing the toteboard.

the odds flashed, I sat down

spilling hot coffee

on my

hand.

“shit,” I said.

and the day went

on.

poetry contest

send as many poems as you wish, only

keep each to a maximum of ten lines.

no limit as to style or content

although we prefer poems of

affirmation.

double space

with your name and address in the

upper left hand

corner.

editors not responsible for

manuscripts

without an s.a.s.e.

every effort

will be made to

judge all works within 90

days.

after careful screening

the final choices will be made by

Elly May Moody,

general editor in charge.

please enclose ten dollars for

each poem

submitted.

a final grand prize of

seventy-five dollars will

be awarded the winner

of the

Elly May Moody Golden Poetry

Award,

along with a scroll

signed by

Elly May Moody.

there will also be 2nd, 3rd and

4th prize scrolls

also signed by

Elly May Moody.

all decisions will be

final.

the prize winners will

appear in the Spring issue of

The Heart of Heaven.

prize winners will also receive

one copy of the magazine

along with

Elly May Moody’s

latest collection of

poetry,

The Place Where Winter

Died.

peace

near the corner table in the

cafe

a middle-aged couple

sit.

they have finished their

meal

and they are each drinking a

beer.

it is 9 in the evening.

she is smoking a

cigarette.

then he says something.

she nods.

then she speaks.

he grins, moves his

hand.

then they are

quiet.

through the blinds next to

their table

flashing red neon

blinks on and

off.

there is no war.

there is no hell.

then he raises his beer

bottle.

it is green.

he lifts it to his lips,

tilts it.

it is a coronet.

her right elbow is

on the table

and in her hand

she holds the

cigarette

between her thumb and

forefinger

and

as she watches

him

the streets outside

flower

in the

night.

the bluebird

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I’m not going

to let anybody see

you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he’s

in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I’m too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody’s asleep.

I say, I know that you’re there,

so don’t be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he’s singing a little

in there, I haven’t quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it’s nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don’t

weep, do

you?

2

living too long takes more than time

going out

the sweet slide of the luger

toward your temple,

a flight of birds winging

northward,

the clicking sound of the

safety catch being

released,

the eclipse of the

sun,

the sound of something being

shut

hard,

pal.

the replacements

Jack London drinking his life away while

writing of strange and heroic men.

Eugene O’Neill drinking himself oblivious

while writing his dark and poetic

works.

now our moderns

lecture at universities

in tie and suit,

the little boys soberly studious,

the little girls with glazed eyes

looking

up,

the lawns so green, the books so dull,

the life so dying of

thirst.

the genius

this man sometimes forgets who

he is.

sometimes he thinks he’s the

Pope.

other times he thinks he’s a

hunted rabbit

and hides under the

bed.

then

all at once

he’ll recapture total

clarity

and begin creating

works of

art.

then he’ll be all right

for some

time.

then, say,

he’ll be sitting with his

wife

and 3 or 4 other

people

discussing various

matters

he will be charming,

incisive,

original.

then he’ll do

something

strange.

like once

he stood up

unzipped

and began

pissing

on the

rug.

another time

he ate a paper

napkin.

and there was

the time

he got into his

car

and drove it

backwards

all the way to

the

grocery store

and back

again

backwards

the other motorists

screaming at

him

but he

made it

there and

back

without

incident

and without

being

stopped

by a patrol

car.

but he’s best

as the

Pope

and his

Latin

is very

good.

his works of

art

aren’t that

exceptional

but they allow him

to

survive

and to live with

a series of

19-year-old

wives

who

cut his hair

his toenails

bib

tuck and

feed

him.

he wears everybody

out

but

himself.

a poet in New York

eating out tonight

I find a table alone

and while waiting for my order

take out my wife’s copy of

A Poet in New York.

I often carry things to read

so that I will not have to look at

the people.

I find the poems bad (for me)

these poems written in 1929

the year of the stock market

crash.

I close the book and look at

the people.

my order arrives.

the food is bad too.

some say that bad and good

run in streaks.

I hope so.

I wait for the good, put a slice of

lemon chicken into my

mouth, chew

and pretend that everything is

fairly

fine.

no sale

I just sat in the bar

non compos mentis.

it was about a week before

Xmas.

big Ed was selling trees

outside.

he came into the

bar.

“Jesus, it’s freezing out

there!”

big Ed looked at me.

“Hank, you go stand out there

with the trees.

if anybody wants to buy

one, you come in and

get me.”

I stood outside.

I was in my shirt sleeves.

I didn’t have a coat.

it was snowing.

it was ice cold

but a nice ice

cold.

I wasn’t used to snow

but I liked the snow.

I stood with the trees.

I stood there about 20

minutes

then big Ed came

out.

“nobody come by?”

“no, Ed.”

“you go on in, tell Billy Boy

to give you a drink on

my tab.”

I walked in

got a stool.

I told Billy Boy,

“double scotch and water,

Ed’s tab.”

Billy Boy poured.

“you sell any trees?”

“no trees.”

Billy Boy looked at

the patrons.

“hey, Hank didn’t sell

no trees.”

“whatsa matter, Hank?”

somebody asked.

I didn’t answer.

I took a hit of my

drink.

“how come no trees were

sold?” somebody else

asked.

“as the bee swarms to

honey, as night follows

day

in the stink of time,

it will

happen.”

“what will happen?”

“somebody will sell a tree

though it won’t necessarily

be me.”

I finished my drink.

there was

silence.

then somebody said,

“this guy is some kind of

nut.”

being there

with those

I decided

I had no argument

with

that.

this

self-congratulatory nonsense as the

famous gather to applaud their seeming

greatness

you

wonder where

the real ones are

what

giant cave

hides them

as

the deathly talentless

bow to

accolades

as

the fools are

fooled

again

you

wonder where

the real ones are

if there are

real ones.

this

self-congratulatory nonsense

has lasted

decades

and

with some exceptions

centuries.

this

is so dreary

is so absolutely pitiless

it

churns the gut to

powder

shackles hope

it

makes little things

like

pulling up a shade

or

putting on your shoes

or

walking out on the street

more difficult

near

damnable

as

the famous gather to

applaud their

seeming

greatness

as

the fools are

fooled

again

humanity

you sick

motherfucker.

now

to reach here

gliding into old age

the decades gone

without ever meeting one person

truly evil

without ever meeting one person

truly exceptional

without ever meeting one person

truly good

gliding into old age

the decades gone

the mornings are the worst.

in error

a warrior

I come in from a long but

victorious day

at the track.

she greets me with some

trash

which I carry and dump

into the garbage

can.

“Jesus Christ,” she says,

“push the lid down tight!

the ants will be

everywhere!”

I push the lid down tight.

I think of Amsterdam.

I think of pigeons flying from a

roof.

I think of Time dangling from

a

paper clip.

she’s right, of course: the lid

should be

tight.

I walk slowly back

into

the

house.

confession

waiting for death

like a cat

that will jump on the

bed

I am so very sorry for

my wife

she will see this

stiff

white

body

shake it once, then

maybe

again:

“Hank!”

Hank won’t

answer.

it’s not my death that

worries me, it’s my wife

left with this

pile of

nothing.

I want to

let her know

though

that all the nights

sleeping

beside her

even the useless

arguments

were things

ever splendid

and the hard

words

I ever feared to

say

can now be

said:

I love

you.

mugged

finished,

can’t find the handle,

mugged in the backalleys of nowhere,

too many dark days and nights,

too many unkind noons, plus a

steady fixation for

the ladies of death.

I am

finished. roll me

up, package

me,

toss me

to the birds of Normandy or the

gulls of Santa Monica, I

no longer

read

I

no longer

breed,

I

talk to old men over quiet

fences.

is this where my suicide complex

uncomplexes?:

as

I am asked over the telephone:

did you ever know Kerouac?

I now allow cars to pass me on the freeway.

I haven’t been in a fist fight for 15 years.

I have to get up and piss 3 times a night.

and when I see a sexpot on the street I

only see

trouble.

I am

finished, back to square one,

drinking alone and listening to classical

music.

much about dying is getting ready.

the tiger walks through my dreams.

the cigarette in my mouth just exploded.

curious things still do

occur.

no, I never knew Kerouac.

so you see:

my life wasn’t

useless

after

all.

the writer

when I think of the things I endured trying to be a

writer—all those rooms in all those cities,

nibbling on tiny bits of food that wouldn’t

keep a rat

alive.

I was so thin I could slice bread with my

shoulderblades, only I seldom had

bread…

meanwhile, writing things down

again and again

on pieces of paper.

and when I moved from one place to

another

my cardboard suitcase was just

that: paper outside stuffed with

paper inside.

each new landlady would

ask, “what do you

do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“oh…”

as I settled into tiny rooms to evoke my

craft

many of them pitied me, gave me little

tidbits like apples, walnuts,

peaches…

little did they know

that that

was about all that I

ate.

but their pity ended when

they found cheap wine bottles in my

place.

it’s all right to be a starving writer

but not

a starving writer who

drinks.

drunks are never forgiven

anything.

but when the world is closing in very

fast

a bottle of wine seems a very

reasonable friend.

ah. all those landladies,

most of them heavy, slow, their husbands

long dead, I can still see those

dears

climbing up and down the stairways of

their world.

they ruled my very existence:

without them allowing me

an extra week on the rent

now and then,

I was out on the

street

and I couldn’t WRITE

on the street.

it was very important to have a

room, a door, those

walls.

oh, those dark mornings

in those beds

listening to their footsteps

listening to them cough

hearing the flushing of their

toilets, smelling the cooking of

their food

while waiting

for some word

on my submissions to New York City

and the world,

my submissions to those educated,

intelligent, snobbish, inbred,

formal, comfortable people

out there

they truly took their time to

say, no.

yes, in those dark beds

with the landladies rustling about

puttering and snooping, sharpening

utensils,

I often thought of those editors and

publishers out there

who didn’t recognize

what I was trying to say

in my special

way

and I thought, they must be

wrong.

then this would be followed

with a thought much worse

than that:

I could be a

fool:

almost every writer thinks

they are doing

exceptional work.

that’s

normal.

being a fool is

normal.

and then I’d

get out of bed

find a piece of

paper

and start

writing

again.

they don’t eat like us

my father eating.

his ears moved.

he munched with great vigor.

I wished him in hell.

I watched the fork in his hand.

I watched it put food into his mouth.

the food I ate was tasteless and deadly.

his small bits of conversation entered my head.

the words ran down my spine.

they spilled into my shoes.

“eat your food, Henry,” my mother said.

he said, “many people are starving and don’t eat as well as us!”

I wished him in hell.

I watched his fork.

it gathered more food and put it into his mouth.

he chewed in a dog-like fashion.

his ears moved.

the brutal beatings he gave me I was ready for.

but watching him eat brought on the darkness.

there at the tablecloth.

there with the green and blue wooden napkin holders.

“eat your food or I’ll strop your god damned ass,” he told me.

later in life I made him pay somewhat.

but he still owes me.

and I’ll never collect.

let me tell you

hell is built

piece by piece

brick by brick

around

you.

it’s a gradual,

not a rapid

process.

we build our

own

inferno,

blame

others.

but hell is

hell.

wordly hell is

hell.

my hell and

your

hell.

our

hell.

hell, hell,

hell.

the song of

hell.

putting your

shoes on

in the

morning.

hell.

blasted apart with the first breath

running out of days

as the banister glints

in the early morning sun.

there will be no rest

even in our dreams.

now, all there is to do is

reset

broken moments.

when even to exist seems a

victory

then surely our luck has

run thin

thinner than a bloody stream

toward death.

life is a sad song:

we have heard too many

voices

seen too many

faces

too many

bodies

worst have been the faces:

a dirty joke that no one

can understand.

barbaric, senseless days total

in your skull;

reality is a juiceless

orange.

there is no plan

no out

no divinity

no sparrow of

joy.

we can’t compare life to

anything—that’s

too dreary a

prospect.

relatively speaking,

we were never short on

courage

but, at best, the odds

remained long

and

at worst,

unchangeable.

and what was worst:

not that we wasted

it

but that it was

wasted

on us:

coming out of

the Womb

trapped

in light and

darkness

stricken and numbed

alone in the temperate zone of

dumb agony

now

running out of days

as the banister glints

in the early morning sun.

Elvis lives

the boy was going to take the bus out

to see the

Graceland Mansion

then

the Greyhound Lines went

on strike.

there were only two clerks

and two lines

at the station

and the lines were

50 to 65 people

long.

after two hours in line

one of the clerks told the

boy

that his bus

would leave

as soon as the substitute

driver arrived.

“when will that be?” the

boy asked.

“we can’t

be certain,” the

clerk answered.

the boy slept on the floor

that night

but by 9 a.m.

the next morning

the substitute driver

still had not

arrived.

the boy had to wait

in another line

to get to the

toilet.

he finally got a

stall, carefully

fitted the

sanitary toilet seat

paper cover,

pulled down his

pants,

his shorts

and

sat down.

luckily

the boy had a

pencil.

he found a clean

space

among all the

smeared and demented

scrawlings and

drawings

and very

carefully

and

heavily

he printed:

HEARTBREAK HOTEL

then he dropped the

first

one.

my buddy in valet parking at the racetrack:

after 9 long races among greedy faces

on a hot Sunday that hardly rhymes with

reason

I have murdered another day,

come out with shoelaces flopping (while

secretly craving to be in a moss-lined

cave, say,

watching black and white cartoons

while wanton simplicity soothes the

muddled brain)

as my buddy the valet races the

machine up, revving the 8-year-old

engine, he leaps

out:

“how ya doin’, baby?”

“things have me by the jugular, Frank,

I’m ready to run up the white

flag.”

“not you, baby, you’re my

leader!”

“you can do better than that,

Frank…”

I get in, hook the seat belt, put on

the driving glasses, put it in first…

“hey, man,” he sticks his head into the

window, “let’s go out and get drunk and

kick some ass and find some

pussy!”

I tell him, “I’ll consider that.”

as I pull out I can see him in the rearview mirror: he’s giving me the

finger.

I smile for the first time in 7 or

8 hours.

see here, you

blazing bastard fools

poets

with your

idiot scrolls

you are so

pompous

in your

knowledge

so

assured

that you are

on a hot roll

to

nirvana

you

soft lumps of

humanity

you

imitators of

other

pretenders

you are still

in

the shadow of

the

Mother

you

have never

bargained with

the

Beast

you have never

tasted

the full flavor of

Hell

you have never

seen

the Edge of

yourself

you have never

been alone

with the

razor-sharp

walls

you

blazing bastard fools

with your

idiot scrolls

there is nothing

to

know

no place

to

travel

your

lives

your

deaths

your

idiot

scrolls

useless

disgusting

and

not as real

as

the

wart

on the ass

of

a

hog.

you

are rejected by

circumstance.

good

bye.

spark

I always resented all the years, the hours, the

minutes I gave them as a working stiff, it

actually hurt my head, my insides, it made me

dizzy and a bit crazy—I couldn’t understand the

murdering of my years

yet my fellow workers gave no signs of

agony, many of them even seemed satisfied, and

seeing them that way drove me almost as crazy as

the dull and senseless work.

the workers submitted.

the work pounded them to nothingness, they were

scooped-out and thrown away.

I resented each minute, every minute as it was

mutilated

and nothing relieved the monotony.

I considered suicide.

I drank away my few leisure hours.

I worked for decades.

I lived with the worst kind of women, they killed what

the job failed to kill.

I knew that I was dying.

something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as

them, accept.

then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest

bit.

it needn’t be much, just a spark.

a spark can set a whole forest on

fire.

just a spark.

save it.

I think I did.

I’m glad I did.

what a lucky god damned

thing.

the science of physiognomy

long gone along the way, faces

grey and white and black and brown, and

eyes, all color of eyes.

eyes are odd, I have lived with a woman,

at least one, where the sex was fair, the

conversation passable and sometimes there was

even a seeming love

but then I suddenly noticed the eyes, saw there

the dark smeared walls of a stinking

hell.

(of course, I am pleased that I do not often have to

see my own eyes, lips, hair, ears, so

forth—

I avoid the mirror with a studied

regularity.)

long gone along the way, he had a face like a

mole pie, fat and unshivering and he walked up to

me in the railroad yards, I was beastly sick

and that flesh plate shook my innards, my psycho-kid

insides as he said, “I’m waiting on my pay-check,

I been squeezing this nickel so hard that the

buffalo is screaming.” he showed me the

nickel.

tough, but no beer, I walked away from him,

my face white like a bright headlight, I walked

away from him and toward the faces of the nonwhites

who

hated me with a natural

ease.

long gone along the way, the landladies’ faces,

doomed, powdered, old lilac faces, old lovely dolls

with husbands so long gone, the agony diminished but

still there as I followed them up stairways nearly a

century old to some cubicle of a room and I always

told them, “ah, a very nice room…”; to pay

then, close the door, undress, lay upon that

bed and turn out the light (it was always early

evening) and then soon to hear the same sound:

the scurry of my old friends: either the roaches or

the mice or the rats.

long gone along the way, now I wonder about Inez

and Irene and their sky-blue eyes and their wonderful

legs and breasts

but mostly

their faces, faces carved out of a marble that

sometimes the gods

bestow and

Inez and Irene sat in front of me in class and learned about

algebra, the shortest distance between two points, the

Treaty of Versailles, about Attila the Hun and

etc.

and I watched them and wondered what they were

thinking?

nothing much,

probably.

and I wonder where they are tonight

with their faces these 5 decades and 2 years

later?

the skin which covers the bone, the eyes that

smile; quick, turn out the light, let the dark

dance…

the most beautiful face I ever saw was that of a

paperman, a newsboy, the old fellow so long gone

down the way

who sat at a stand at Beverly and Vermont,

his head, his face looked like what they

called him: The Frog Man. I saw him

often but we seldom spoke and

The Frog Man died suddenly

and was gone

but I will always remember him

and one night

I came out of a nearby bar,

he was there at his stand and

he looked at me and said, “you and I, we know the same

things.”

I nodded, put both thumbs up, and that big Frog

face, the big Frog head lifted in the moonlight

and began laughing the most terrible and real

laughter I have ever

heard.

long gone along the way

victory

what bargains we have made

we have

kept

and

as the dogs of the hours

close in

nothing

can be taken

from us

but

our lives.

Edward Sbragia

puffing on tiny cigarette butts as the world washes to the

shore I

burn my

dumb lips

think of

Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen

und sein

Fliegerzirkus.

as my cat sits in the bathroom window I

light a new

stub

as Norway winks and the dogs of hell pray for

me

downstairs my wife studies the

Italian

language.

up here

I would give half my ass for a

decent

smoke…

I

sneeze

then

jump: a little red coal of ash has dropped onto my

white white

belly—I

dig the fiery bit out with my

fingers:

a bit of minor

pain

I type naked: see my sulking soul

now

with a little pink

dot.

you see, I have my own show going on up

here, I don’t need Vegas or cable

tv,

the label on my wine bottle states

in part:

“…our winemaker, Edward Sbragia, has retained the

fresh, fruity character of the Pinot Noir and Napa

Gamay grapes…”

the dogs of hell pray for me as the

world washes to the

shore.

wandering in the cage

languid conjecture during hours of moil, trapped in the shadows

of the father.

sidewalks outside of cafes are lonely

through the day.

my cat looks at me and is not sure what I am and

I look back and am pleased to feel

the same

about him…

reading 2 issues of a famous magazine of 40 years

ago, the writing that I felt was bad then,

I still feel

is

that way

and none of the writers have lasted.

sometimes there is a strange justice

working

somewhere.

sometimes

not…

grammar school was the first awakening of a long hell

to come:

meeting other beings as horrible as my

parents.

something I never thought

possible…

when I won the medal for Manual of Arms in the

R.O.T.C.

I wasn’t interested in

winning.

I wasn’t much interested in anything, even the

girls seemed a bad game

to chase: all too much for all too

little

at night before sleeping I often considered what I

would do, what I would be:

bank robber, drunk, beggar, idiot, common

laborer.

I settled on idiot and common laborer, it

seemed more comfortable than any of the

alternatives…

the best thing about near-starvation and hunger is

that when you finally

eat

it is such a beautiful and delicious and

magical thing.

people who eat 3 meals a day throughout life

have never really

tasted

food…

people are strange: they are constantly angered by

trivial things,

but on a major matter

like

totally wasting their lives,

they hardly seem to

notice…

on writers: I found out that most of them

swam together.

there were schools, establishments,

theories.

groups gathered and fought each

other.

there was literary politics.

there was game-playing and

bitterness.

I always thought writing was a

solitary profession.

still do…

animals never worry about

Heaven or Hell.

neither do

I.

maybe that’s why

we

get along…

when lonely people come around

I soon can understand why

other people leave them

alone.

and that which would be a

blessing to

me

is a horror to

them…

poor poor Celine.

he only wrote one book.

forget the others.

but what a book it was:

Voyage au bout de la nuit.

it took everything out of

him.

it left him a hopscotch

odd-ball

skittering through the

fog of

eventuality…

the United States is a very strange

place: it reached its apex in

1970

and since then

for every year

it has regressed

3 years,

until now

in 1989

it is 1930

in the way of

doing things.

you don’t have to go to the movies

to see a horror

show.

there is a madhouse near the post office

where I mail my works

out.

I never park in front of the post office,

I park in front of the madhouse

and walk down.

I walk past the madhouse.

some of the lesser mad are allowed

out on the porch.

they sit like

pigeons.

I feel a brotherhood with

them.

but I don’t sit with them.

I walk down and drop my works

in the first class slot.

I am supposed to know what I am

doing.

I walk back, look at them and

don’t look at

them.

I get in my car and drive

off.

I am allowed to drive a

car.

I drive it all the way back to my

house.

I drive my car up the driveway,

thinking,

what am I doing?

I get out of my car

and one of my 5 cats walks up to

me, he is a very fine

fellow.

I reach down and touch

him.

then I feel all right.

I am exactly what I am supposed to

be.

the pack

the dogs are at it again; they leap and

tear, back off, circle, then

attack again.

and I had thought this was over, I had

thought that they had

forgotten; now there are only

more of them.

and I am older,

now

but the dogs are

ageless

and as always they tear not only at

the flesh but also at

the mind and the spirit.

now

they are circling me

in this room.

they are not

beautiful; they are the dogs

from hell

and they will find you

too

even though you are one

of them

now.

question and answer

he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer

night, running the blade of the knife

under his fingernails, smiling, thinking

of all the letters he had received

telling him that

the way he lived and wrote about

that—

it had kept them going when

all seemed

truly

hopeless.

putting the blade on the table, he

flicked it with a finger

and it whirled

in a flashing circle

under the light.

who the hell is going to save

me? he

thought.

as the knife stopped spinning

the answer came:

you’re going to have to

save yourself.

still smiling,

a: he lit a

cigarette

b: he poured

another

drink

c: gave the blade

another

spin.

fan letter

I been readin’ you for a long time now,

I just put Billy Boy to bed,

he got 7 mean ticks from somewhere,

I got 2,

my husband, Benny, he got 3.

some of us love bugs, others hate

them.

Benny writes poems.

he was in the same magazine as you

once.

Benny is the world’s greatest writer

but he got this temper.

he gave a readin’ once and somebody

laughed at one of his serious poems

and Benny took his thing out right

there

and pissed on stage.

he says you write good but that you

couldn’t carry his balls in a paper

bag.

anyhow, I made a BIG POT OF MARMALADE

tonight,

we all just LOVE marmalade here.

Benny lost his job yesterday, he told his

boss to stick it up his ass

but I still got my job down at the

manicure shop.

you know fags come in to get their nails

done?

you aren’t a fag, are you, Mr.

Chinaski?

anyhow, I just felt like writing you.

your books are read and read around

here.

Benny says you’re an old fart, you

write pretty good but that you

couldn’t carry his balls in a

paper sack.

do you like bugs, Mr. Chinaski?

I think the marmalade is cool enough to

eat now.

so goodbye.

Dora

hold on, it’s a belly laugh

it would be good to get

out of here,

just go,

pop off, get away from

memories of this

and all

that,

but staying has its

flavor too:

all those babes who

thought they were

hot numbers

now living in dirty

flats

while looking forward

to the next

episode on

some Soap Opera,

and all those guys,

those who really

thought

they were going to

make it,

grinning in the

Year Book with their

tight-skinned

mugs,

now they are

cops,

clerk typists,

operators of

sandwich stands,

horse grooms,

plops

in the dust.

it’s good to stay

around

to see what

happened to

all the

others-only

when you go to

the bathroom,

avoid the

mirror

and

don’t look

at

what you

flush

away.

finished

the ball comes up to the

plate and I can’t

see

it.

my batting average has dropped to

.231

small things constantly

irritate me

and I can’t sleep

nights.

“you’ll come back,

Harry,” my teammates

tell me.

then they grin and are

secretly

pleased.

I’ve been benched for a

22 year old

kid.

he looks good up there:

power, lots of line

drives.

“ever thought of coaching?”

the manager asks.

“no,” I tell him, “how about

you?”

when I get home my wife

asks, “you get in the lineup

tonight?”

“nope.”

“don’t worry, he’ll put you

in.”

“no, he won’t. I’m gonna

pinch hit the rest of the

season.”

I go into the bathroom and

look into the

mirror.

I’m no 22 year old

kid.

what gets me is that it

seemed to happen

overnight.

one night I was good.

the next night, it

seemed, I was

finished.

I come out of the bathroom

and my wife says,

“don’t worry, all you need

is a little

rest.”

“I been thinking about going

into coaching,” I tell

her.

“sure,” she says, “and after

that I’ll bet you’ll be a

good manager.”

“hell yes,” I say, “anything

on tv?”

zero

dark taste in mouth, my neck is stiff, I am looking for

my sonic vibrator, the music on my radio is diseased,

the winds of death seep through my slippers, and a

terrible letter in the mail today from a pale non-soul

who requests that he may come by to see me

in repayment, he says, for a ride he gave me home

from a drunken Pasadena party

20 years ago.

also, one of the cats shit on the rug this

morning

and in the first race I bet this afternoon

the horse tossed the jock

coming out of the gate.

downstairs

I have a large photo of Hemingway

drunk before noon in Havana, he’s on the floor

mouth open, his big belly trying to flop

out of his shirt.

I feel like that photo and I’m not even drunk.

maybe

that’s the problem.

whatever the problem is, it’s there, and worse, it

shouldn’t be

for I have been a lucky man, I shouldn’t even

be here

after all I have done to myself

and after all they have done

to me

I ought to be kneeling to the gods and giving

thanks.

instead, I deride their kindness by being

impatient

with the world.

maybe a damned good night’s sleep will bring me back

to a gentle sanity.

but at the moment, I look about this room and, like

myself, it’s all in disarray: things fallen

out of place, cluttered, jumbled, lost, knocked

over, and I can’t put it straight, don’t

want to.

perhaps living through these petty days will get us ready

for the dangerous ones.

eyeless through space

it’s no longer any good, sucker, they’ve

turned out the lights, they’ve

blocked the rear entrance

and

the front’s on fire;

nobody knows your name;

down at the opera they play

checkers;

the city fountains piss

blood;

the extremities are reamed

and

they’ve hung the best

barber;

the dim souls have ascended;

the cardboard souls smile;

the love of dung is unanimous;

it’s no longer any good, sucker, the

graves have emptied out onto the

living;

last is first,

lost is everything;

the giant dogs mourn through dandelion

dreams;

the panthers welcome cages;

the onion heart is frosted,

destiny is destitute,

the horns of reason are muted as

the laughter of fools blockades the air;

the champions are dead

and

the newly born are smitten;

the jetliners vomit the eyeless through

space;

it’s no longer any good, sucker, it’s been

getting to that

right along

and now

it’s here

and you can’t touch it smell it see it

because it’s nothing everywhere as

you look up or down or turn or sit or stand

or sleep or run,

it’s no longer any good, sucker.

it’s no longer any good

sucker sucker sucker

and

if you don’t already know

I’m not surprised

and

if you do, sucker, good

luck

in the dark

going nowhere.

tag up and hold

not much chance in

Amsterdam;

cheese dislikes the

flea;

the center fielder

turns

runs back

in his stupid

uniform,

times it all

perfectly:

ball and man

arriving as

one

he

gloves it

precisely

in tune with the

universe;

not much chance in

east

Kansas City;

and

have you noticed

how

men stand

side by side

in urinals,

trained in the

act,

looking straight

ahead;

the center fielder

wings it

into the

cut-off

man

who eyes the

runners;

the sun plunges

down

as somewhere

an old

woman

opens a window

looks at a

geranium,

goes for a cup of

water;

not much chance in

New York City

or

in the look

of the eye

of

the man

who sits in a

chair

across from

you

he is

going

to ask you

certain

questions about

certain

things

especially

about

what to

do

without

much chance.

upon this time

fine then, thunderclaps at midnight, death in the

plaza.

my shoes need shining.

my typewriter is silent.

I write this in pen

in an old yellow

notebook

while

leaning propped up against the wall

behind the

bed.

Hemingway said, “it won’t come

anymore.”

later—the gun

into the

mouth.

not writing is not good

but trying to write

when you can’t is

worse.

hey, I have excuses:

I have TB and the

antibiotics dull the

brain.

“you’ll write again,” people

assure me, “you’ll be

better than

ever.”

that’s nice to know.

but the typewriter is silent

and it looks at

me.

meanwhile, every two or three

weeks

I get a fan letter in the mail

telling me that

surely

I must be

the world’s greatest

writer.

but

the typewriter is silent

and looks at

me….

this is one of the

strangest times

of my

life.

I’ve got to do a

Lazarus

and I can’t even

shine

my shoes.

Downtown Billy

they used to call him

“Downtown” Billy.

“Downtown” had these

long arms

and he swung them

with

abandon

and with great

force.

when you fought

“Downtown” Billy

you never knew

where the punches

were coming

from: “They come

from Downtown…”

“Downtown” once rose

all the way

to #4 in his weight

class,

then he dropped out

of the first

ten.

then he fell to

fighting 6 rounders,

then 4.

the punches still

came from

Downtown

but you could

see them

coming.

then he was just a

sparring

partner.

last I heard

he left

town.

today I feel

like “Downtown” Billy,

sitting in this

blue garden chair

under the

walnut

tree,

watching the

neighbor boy

bounce a

basketball,

take some

fancy steps

forward,

then loop the

ball

through the

hoop

over the

garage

door.

I have just taken

my

pills.

8 count

from my bed

I watch

3 birds

on a telephone

wire.

one flies

off.

then

another.

one is left,

then

it too

is gone.

my typewriter is

tombstone

still.

and I am

reduced to bird

watching.

just thought I’d

let you

know,

fucker.

ill

being very ill and very weak is a very strange

thing.

when it takes all your strength to get from the

bedroom to the bathroom and back, it seems like

a joke but

you don’t laugh.

back in bed you consider death again and find

the same thing: the closer you get to it

the less forbidding it

becomes.

you have much time to examine the walls

and outside

birds on a telephone wire take on much

importance.

and there’s the tv: men playing baseball

day after day.

no appetite.

food tastes like cardboard, it makes you

ill, more than

ill.

the good wife keeps insisting that you

eat.

“the doctor said…”

poor dear.

and the cats.

the cats jump up on the bed and look at me.

they stare, then jump

off.

what a world, you think: eat, work, fuck,

die.

luckily I have a contagious disease: no

visitors.

the scale reads 155, down from

217.

I look like a man in a death camp.

I

am.

still, I’m lucky: I feast on solitude, I

will never miss the crowd.

I could read the great books but the great books don’t

interest me.

I sit in bed and wait for the whole thing to go

one way or the

other.

just like everybody

else.

only one Cervantes

it’s no use, I’ve got to admit,

I am into my first real

writer’s block

after over

5 decades

of typing.

I have some excuses:

I’ve had a long

illness

and I’m nearing the age of

70.

and when you’re near

70 you always consider the

possibility of

slippage.

but I am bucked-up

by the fact that

Cervantes

wrote his greatest work

at the age of

80.

but how many

Cervantes

are there?

I’ve been spoiled with the

easy way I have created

things,

and now there’s this

miserable

stoppage.

and now

spiritually constipated I’ve

grown testy,

have screamed at my wife

twice this week,

once smashing a glass

into the sink.

bad form,

sick nerves,

bad

style.

I should accept this

writer’s block.

hell, I’m lucky I’m alive,

I’m lucky I don’t have

cancer.

I’m lucky in a hundred

different ways.

sometimes at night

in bed

at one or two a.m.

I will think about

how lucky I am

and it keeps me

awake.

now I’ve always written in a

selfish way, that is, to please

myself.

by writing things down I have

been better able to

live with them.

now, that’s

stopped.

I see other old men with canes

sitting at bus stop benches,

staring straight into the sun and

seeing nothing.

and I know there are other

old men

in hospitals and nursing

homes

sitting upright in their

beds

grunting over

bedpans.

death is nothing, brother,

it’s life that’s

hard.

writing has been my fountain

of youth,

my whore,

my love,

my gamble.

the gods have spoiled me.

yet look, I am still

lucky,

for writing about a

writer’s block

is better than not writing

at all.

that I have known the dead

that I have known the dead and now I’m

dying

as they spoon succotash and

noodles

into a skull

past

caring.

that I have known the dead and now I’m

dying

in a world long ago

gone

leaving this is

nothing.

loving it was

too.

that I have known the dead and now I’m

dying

fingers thin to the

bone,

I offer no

prayers.

that I have known the dead and now I’m

dying

dying

I have known the dead

here on earth

and elsewhere;

alone now,

alone then,

alone.

are you drinking?

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook

out again

I write from the bed

as I did last

year.

will see the doctor,

Monday.

“yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-aches

and my back

hurts.”

“are you drinking?” he will ask.

“are you getting your

exercise, your

vitamins?”

I think that I am just ill

with life, the same stale yet

fluctuating

factors.

even at the track

I watch the horses run by

and it seems

meaningless.

I leave early after buying tickets on the

remaining races.

“taking off?” asks the mutuel

clerk.

“yes, it’s boring,”

I tell him.

“if you think it’s boring

out there,” he tells me, “you oughta be

back here.”

so here I am

propped against my pillows

again

just an old guy

just an old writer

with a yellow

notebook.

something is

walking across the

floor

toward

me.

oh, it’s just

my cat

this

time.

“D”

the doctor is into collecting art

and the magazines in his waiting room

are Artsy

have thick covers, glistening pages,

and large color

photos.

the receptionist calls my name and

I’m led into a waiting room with

walls adorned with paintings

and a chart of the human

body.

the doctor enters: “how are you

doing?”

not well, I think, or I wouldn’t

be here.

“now,” he goes on, “I am surprised

by the biopsy, I didn’t expect

this…”

the doctor is a bald, well-scrubbed

pink fellow.

“I can almost always tell just by

looking; this time, I

missed…”

he paused.

“go on,” I say.

“all right, let’s say there are

4 types of cancer—A, B, C, D.

well, you’ve got

D.

and if I had cancer I’d rather

have your kind:

D.”

the doctor is in a tough business

but the pay is

good.

“well,” he says, “we’ll just burn it off,

o.k.?”

I stretch out on the table and he has an

instrument, I can feel the heat of it

searing through the air

but also

I hear a whirring sound

like a drill.

“it’ll be over in a

blink…”

the small growth is just inside of

the right nostril.

the instrument touches it

and

the room is filled with the smell

of burning flesh.

then he stops.

then he starts

again.

there is pain but it’s sharp and

centered.

he stops

again.

“now we are going to do it

once more to

clean it

up.”

he applies the instrument

again.

this time I feel the most

pain.

“there now…”

it’s finished, no bandage needed,

it’s

cauterized.

then I’m at the receptionist’s

desk, she makes out a bill, I

pay with my

Mastercard, am out the door,

down the stairway and there

in the parking lot

awaits

my faithful automobile.

It’s a day with a great deal of

afternoon left

I light a cigarette, start the

car and

get the hell

out of there

moving toward something

else.

in the bottom

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the smoking claw

the red train

the letter home

the deep-fried blues.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the song you sang together

the mouse in the attic

the train window in the rain

the whiskey breath on grandfather

the coolness of the jail trustee.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the famous gone quite stupid

churches with peeling white paint

lovers who chose hyenas

schoolgirls giggling at atrophy

the suicide oceans of night.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

button eyes in a cardboard face

dead library books squeezed upright.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the octopus

Gloria gone mad while shaving her armpits

the gang wars

no toilet paper at all in a train station restroom

a flat tire halfway to Vegas.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the dream of the barmaid as the perfect girl

the first and only home run

the father sitting in the bathroom with the door open

the brave and quick death

the gang rape in the Fun House.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the wasp in the spider web

the plumbers moving to Malibu

the death of the mother like a bell that never rang

the absence of wise old men.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

Mozart

fast food joints where the price of a bad meal exceeds the hourly wage

angry women and deluded men and faded children

the housecat

love as a swordfish.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

17,000 people screaming at a homerun

millions laughing at the obvious jokes of a tv comedian

the long and hideous wait in the welfare offices

Cleopatra fat and insane

Beethoven in the grave.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the damnation of Faust and sexual intercourse

the sad-eyed dogs of summer lost in the streets

the last funeral

Celine failing again

the carnation in the buttonhole of the kindly killer.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

fantasies tainted with milk

our obnoxious invasion of the planets

Chatterton drinking rat poison

the bull that should have killed Hemingway

Paris like a pimple in the sky.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the mad writer in a cork room

the falseness of the Senior Prom

the submarine with purple footprints.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

the tree that cries in the night

the place that nobody found

being so young you thought you could change it

being middle-aged and thinking you could survive it

being old and thinking you could hide from it.

in the bottom of the hour

lurks

2:30 a.m.

and the next to last line

and then the last.

the creative act

for the broken egg on the floor

for the 5th of July

for the fish in the tank

for the old man in room 9

for the cat on the fence

for yourself

not for fame

not for money

you’ve got to keep chopping

as you get older

the glamour recedes

it’s easier when you’re young

anybody can rise to the

heights now and then

the buzzword is

consistency

anything that keeps it

going

this life dancing in front of

Mrs. Death.

a suborder of naked buds

the uselessness of the word is

evident.

I would like to make

this

piece of paper

shriek and dance and

laugh

but

the keys just

strike it harmlessly

and

we settle

for just a fraction of

the whole.

this incompleteness is all

we have:

we write the same things

over and over

again.

we are fools,

driven.

the uselessness of the word is

evident.

writers can only pretend to

succeed

some pretend well, others

not so

yet

none of us come

near

none of us even

close

sitting at these

machines

behooved to

live

out

our indecent

profession.

companion

I am not alone.

he’s here now.

sometimes I think he’s

gone

then he

flies back

in the morning or at

noon or in the

night.

a bird no one wants.

he’s mine.

my bird of pain.

he doesn’t sing.

that bird

swaying on the

bough.

you know and I know and thee know

that as the yellow shade rips

as the cat leaps wild-eyed

as the old bartender leans on the wood

as the hummingbird sleeps

you know and I know and thee know

as the tanks practice on false battlefields

as your tires work the freeway

as the midget drunk on cheap bourbon cries alone at night

as the bulls are carefully bred for the matadors

as the grass watches you and the trees watch you

as the sea holds creatures vast and true

you know and I know and thee know

the sadness and the glory of two slippers under a bed

the ballet of your heart dancing with your blood

young girls of love who will someday hate their mirrors

overtime in hell

lunch with sick salad

you know and I know and thee know

the end as we know it now

it seems such a lousy trick after the lousy agony but

you know and I know and thee know

the joy that sometimes comes along out of nowhere

rising like a falcon moon across the impossibility

you know and I know and thee know

the cross-eyed craziness of total elation

we know that we finally have not been cheated

you know and I know and thee know

as we look at our hands our feet our lives our way

the sleeping hummingbird

the murdered dead of armies

the sun that eats you as you face it

you know and I know and thee know

we will defeat death.

3

the sun slants in like a golden sword as the odds grow shorter

show biz

I can’t have it

and you can’t have it

and we won’t

get it

so don’t bet on it

or even think about

it

just get out of bed

each morning

wash

shave

clothe

yourself

and go out into

it

because

outside of that

all that’s left is

suicide and

madness

so you just

can’t

expect too much

you can’t even

expect

so what you do

is

work from a modest

minimal

base

like when you

walk outside

be glad your car

might possibly

be there

and if it is—

that the tires

aren’t

flat

then you get

in

and if it

starts—you

start.

and

it’s the damndest

movie

you’ve ever

seen

because

you’re

in it—

low budget

and

4 billion

critics

and the longest

run

you ever hope

for

is

one

day.

darkness & ice

I am spooked by the bluebells and the silent harp while

passing down Western Avenue and seeing the tombstones

placed flat instead of upright upon the cemetery lawn: our decent

modernity not wanting to upset us with Finalities while we

pay 22% interest on our credit cards.

I follow the street on down

feeling wonderful that I do not appear to be lost.

we need our landmarks (like cemeteries), we need our

liquor and our liabilities.

we need so many things we think we do not

need.

strangely then, as I drive south, I begin thinking about

THE WORLD IS SQUARE, INC., an institution which meets and

discusses the fact that: the world is square and the North Pole is at

the CENTER of the SQUARE and holds everything from sliding

over the edge and that the EDGE is really a WALL OF

DARKNESS AND ICE and that nothing or nobody can go through

and that

when we THINK we are circling the globe we are only

CIRCLING the SQUARE, finally arriving back

where we began.

I wait at a signal, the light turns green and I move on

thinking, well, maybe the planets we believe are round are

illusions, and the moon and the sun, they are really square

too.

well, you can’t rule anything out; I vote for round

but I still realize that it wasn’t too long ago when

EVERYBODY thought the answer was SQUARE.

I stop at another signal, wait, while being held from falling

over the EDGE OF DARKNESS AND ICE by the North Pole standing in the

CENTER of the SQUARE.

the light changes, I drive on, turn left, go a few blocks, turn

right, go a block or so, turn left, go a block, turn right, then

a left and I am at my driveway, turn in, drive slowly up to

the garage

past the tangerine tree and the tangerines are round but

the garage door is square and I am still spooked by the

bluebells and the silent harp

cut the engine

get out

stand up

still alive.

I move along the walk.

god, things are getting interesting again: they say there are

bottomless craters at the North Pole and deep in the earth live

Creatures from Outer Space

down there

in a marvelous, beautiful and peaceful Kingdom, I move toward the

door, make ready to open it, not at all sure of what will be

waiting on the other side—there is always this gnarling

apprehension

generally but not always warranted, and as the North Pole holds me

from falling off either the Curve or the

Edge

I push open the wooden wall and enter, ready and not ready

enough.

the big ride

all right,

some day you’ll see me in a plastic

helmet, long stockings,

double-lens goggles;

I’ll be tooling along on my 10-speed

bike on the promenade,

my face will be as intense

as a canteloupe and

in my knapsack

there could be a

bible, along with the

liverwurst sandwich and

the red red

apple.

off to one side the

sea will break and

break

and I will

pump along—a

well-lived

man,

lived a little, perhaps,

beyond his

sensibilities: too

much hair in the

ears, and face

badly shaven;

there, my lips

never again to

kiss a

virgin; I gulp in

the salty air

while being

unsure of the

time

but almost sure

of the

place.

all right, gliding

along

girding up for the

casket,

the sun like a

yellow glove to

grab me

I pass a group of

young ones

sitting in their

convertible.

“Jesus Christ,” I hear

a voice, “do you

know who that

was?”

was?

was?

why, you little

fart bells!

you bits of

bunny

droppings!

I kick it

into high, I

rise over a

hill

into a patch

of fog,

my legs

pump and

the

sea

breaks.

small cafe

you take a stool, unfold the paper, the waitress brings the

java, you order bacon and

everybody in there is old and bent and poor, they are like

the oldest people in the universe

having breakfast

and it’s dark in there like the inside of a glove

and some of the patrons speak to each other,

only their voices are broken and scratched and they speak

of simple things,

so simple

you think that they are joking but

they hulk over their food, unsmiling…

“Casmir died, he wore his green shoes…”

“yeh.”

strange place there, no sadness, no rancor, an overhead

fan turns slowly, one of the blades bent a bit, it

clicks against the grate: “a-flick, a-flick, a-flick…”

nobody

notices.

my food arrives, it is hot and clean, but never coffee

like that (the worst), it is like drinking the water left in muddy

footprints.

the old waitress is a dear, dressed in faded pink, she can

hardly walk, she’s

sans everything.

“do you really love me?” she asks the young Mexican fry

cook. “why?”

“because I can’t help it,” he says, running the spatula

under a mass of hash browns, turning

them.

I eat, peruse the newspaper, general idea I get is

that the world is not yet about to end but a

recession is to come creeping in wearing

faded tennis

shoes.

an old man looms in the doorway, he’s big in all the

wrong ways and shuts out what little light there

is.

“hey, anybody seen Vern?”

there is no answer, the old man

waits, he waits a good minute and a half, then he lets out a

little fart.

I can hear it, everybody can. uh

huh.

he reaches up, scratches behind his left ear, then backs out of

the doorway and is

gone.

“that ratfucker,” somebody says, “zinched little Laura out of

her dowry.”

the last bit of toast sogs down my throat, I wipe my mouth, leave

the tip, rise to pay the

bill.

the cash register is the old fashioned kind where the

drawer jumps out when you hit the

keys.

I was the last person to sit down to eat, I am the first to

leave, the others still sit

fiddling with their food, fighting the coffee

down

as I get to my car I start the engine, think,

nice place, rather like an accidental

love, maybe I’ll go back there

once or

twice.

then I back out, swing around and enter the

real world

again.

washrag

leaving for the track in the morning

my wife asks me,

“did you wring out your washrag

properly?”

“yes,” I say.

“you never do,” she says,

“it’s important that you wring out

your washrag

properly.”

I get into my car,

start it,

back out the drive.

of course, she’s right, it is

important.

on the other hand

I don’t want to get into an

argument over

washrags.

she waves goodbye,

I wave back,

then I turn left,

go down the hill.

it is a fine sunny

day

and great matters loom

across the horizon

of

history.

Carthage in my rearview

mirror,

I blend into

Time.

sitting with the IBM

another still, hot summer night,

the small insects circle my wineglass, my

winebottle.

I once again consider my death

as a Brahms symphony ends upon the

radio.

the horses didn’t run today (not

here) but there was gunfire, murder,

bombings in many parts of the

earth.

there is always a contest

of sorts

at hand.

and the years move slow and the years

move fast and the years move

past.

it seems not so long ago that

old Henry Miller was still

alive,

always finding new young girls to dust

his lampshades, pose for him, and make him

nice little meals.

what a ladies’ man, he could never get

enough of them.

anyhow, my 5 cats dislike the heat, they

sit outside under the cool juniper bushes

listening to me

type.

sometimes they bring me presents:

birds or mice.

then we have a little misunderstanding.

and they back off

looking at me

and their eyes say: this guy’s nuts,

he doesn’t know that this is the way

it works.

another hot summer night as I sit here

and play at being a writer

again.

and the worst thing

of course

is that the words will never

truly break through for any of

us.

some nights I have taken the sheet

out of the typer and

held it over the cigarette

lighter, flicked

it and waited for the

result.

“Hank, are you burning things again?”

my wife will ask.

anyhow, there’s another composer on the

radio now

and there is only so much he can do

with his notes.

I am proud for him and yet

sad for him too.

the radio is old and dusty

and through

the speaker

he talks to me.

it’s as if he were hiding in there

and I want to console him, say:

“I am sorry, poor fellow, but

creation has its

limits.”

another hot summer night

another sheet of paper in this machine,

more insects, more cigarettes in

this place, this time, hurrah hurrah, lost

in the grisly multitude of days

the speaker in the radio vibrates, trembles

as the composer swells out at me, the

son of a bitch is good

so brave despite his limitations

as the cats wait under the juniper

bushes and I pour more wine, more wine,

more wine.

my buddy, the buddha

I must wash this buddha that sits on my desk—

dust and grime all over him

mostly on his chest and belly; ah,

we have endured many long nights together; we have

endured trivia and horror; at unseemly times we

have laughed

cleanly—now

the least he deserves is a good

going over

with a wet rag;

truly terrible have been

some long nights but

the buddha has been good, quiet

company; he never quite looks at me but

he seems to be forever laughing—he’s

laughing at this muck of

existence: there’s nothing to be done.

“why clean me?” he now asks, “I will only dirty

again.”

“I am only pretending at some dumb sanity,” I

answer.

“drink your wine,” he responds, “that’s what

you’re good at.”

“and,” I ask, “what are you good

at?”

he returns: “I am good at almost watching

you.”

then he becomes silent.

he holds a circle of beads with a

tassel.

how did he get in

here?

the interviewers

the interviewers come around

and there is nothing that you can

really

tell them.

it’s

embarrassing

and the easiest way out

is to get yourself

and them

drunk.

sometimes there is also a

camera man and a sound

man

and so it becomes a

party with

many bottles

needed.

I don’t think they want to

hear the literary crap

either.

it seems to work out all

right:

I get letters

later:

“I really had a good

time…”

or: “it was the best time

I ever had.”

how strange, when all I

remember

of any particular night is

saying goodbye at the

door

with: “don’t leave

anything behind so you

have to

come back.”

freaky time

the lady down at the end of the bar keeps looking at

me, I put my head down, I look away, I light

a cigarette, glance again: she’s still staring at me, she’s

charmingly dressed and she, herself, well, you might

say she’s beautiful.

her eyes meld with mine; I am

elated and nervous, then

she gets up, goes to the ladies’ room:

such a behind!

such grace!

what a gazelle!

I glance at my face in the bar mirror, look

away.

she’s back; then the barkeep comes down: “a drink

from the lady at the end of the bar.”

I nod thanks to her, lift my drink, smile, have a

hit.

she is looking again, what a strange and pleasurable

experience.

I look forward, examine the backs of my hands—not

bad hands as far as hands go.

then, at once, it occurs to me:

she has mistaken me for somebody

else.

I leave my stool and slowly walk to the exit,

and out into the night; I walk half a block down the

boulevard, feel the need for a smoke, slip the

pack of cigarettes out of my coat pocket, look

curiously at the brand name (I did not purchase

these): DEATH, it

says.

I curse, hurl the pack into the street, move toward

the next bar: knew it all along: she was a

whore.

the aliens

you may not believe it

but there are people

who go through life with

very little

friction or

distress.

they dress well, eat

well, sleep well.

they are contented with

their family

life.

they have moments of

grief

but all in all

they are undisturbed

and often feel

very good.

and when they die

it is an easy

death, usually in their

sleep.

you may not believe

it

but such people do

exist.

but I am not one of

them.

oh no, I am not one

of them,

I am not even near

to being

one of

them

but they are

there

and I am

here.

shock treatment

the fight I saw,

after the tv cameras were

shut off,

a fighter in green

trunks and

a fighter in blue,

only 50 to 75

absolutely silent

people

remaining,

you heard each

blow

land

crushingly

amid

sweat, saliva

blood,

gasps of

agony,

drinks no longer

served,

all the lights

on,

thousands of

empty

seats,

the bell rang

to end the

round,

it clanged

right through

you

as the boxers

went back

sat on their

stools

and were

swabbed by

listless

cornermen.

we were all

in hell

all of us

and I

got up

and left

that time.

between races

I know that I’m not supposed to bother

you, he said.

you’ve got that right, I

answered.

but, he went on, I want to tell you

that I was up all night

reading your

latest book.

I’ve read all your

books.

I work in the

post office.

oh, I said.

and I want to interview you for

our newspaper.

no, I said, no

interview.

why? he asked.

I’m tired of interviews, they have

nothing to do with

anything.

listen, he went on, I’ll make it

easy for you, I’ll come to your

house or I’ll buy you dinner at

Musso’s.

no, thank you, I said.

look, the interview isn’t really for

our paper, it’s for

me, I’m a writer and I want to get

out of the post

office.

listen, I said, just pull up a chair

and sit down at your

typewriter.

no interview? he asked.

no, I answered.

he walked

off.

they were coming out on the track

for the next race.

talking to the young man had

made me feel

bad.

they thought that writing had

something to do with

the politics of the

thing.

they were simply not

crazy enough

in the head

to sit down to a

typer

and let the words bang

out.

they didn’t want to

write

they wanted to

succeed at

writing.

I got up to make

my bet.

no use letting a little

conversation

ruin your

day.

splashing

dumb,

Jesus Christ,

some people are so dumb

you can hear them

splashing around

in their dumbness

as their eyes

look out of their

heads.

they have

most of their

parts: hands, feet,

ears, legs, elbows,

intestines, fingernails,

noses and so

forth

but

there’s nothing

there

yet

they are able to

speak,

form sentences—

but what

comes out

of their mouths

are the stalest

concepts, the most

warped beliefs,

they are the repository

of all the obvious

stupidities

they have

stuffed

themselves

with

and it hurts me

to

look at them

to

listen to them,

I want to

run and hide

I want to

escape their engulfing

nullity

there is no

horror movie

worse,

no murder

as

unsolved

but

the world

goes on

and

they

go on

dumbly

slamming

my guts to

pieces.

darkling

some nights you don’t sleep.

of course

having 3 or 4 cats on the bed

doesn’t help.

my wife likes to carry them up

from downstairs

but

it’s not always the cats, it’s

hardly anything,

say,

re-working horse systems in my

brain, or it’s a cold moon, an

itchy back, the

thought of death out

there

beyond the venetian blinds

or

I’ll think nice things about my

wife, she looks so small there

under the blanket, a little

lump, that’s all

(death, you take me first, please,

this lady needs a gentle space of

peace

without me).

then a boat horn blows from the

harbor.

I pull my head up, stretching

my thick neck, I see the

clock:

3:36 a.m.

that always does it: looking at

the clock.

by 3:45 a.m. I am asleep, just

like the cats, just like my

wife,

the venetian blinds closing us

all in.

Celine with cane and basket

tonight I am nothing

I have lost touch with the walls

I have seen too many heads, hands, feet,

heard too many voices,

I am weary with the continuation,

the music is old music,

there is no stirring in the air.

on my wall is a photo of

Celine,

he has a cane,

carries a basket,

wears a coat too heavy,

a long strand of hair falls across his face,

he has been stunned by life,

the dogs have had at him,

it got to be too much

much too much.

he walks through a small forest,

this doctor,

this typer of words,

all he wants to do is die,

that’s all he wants,

and his photo is on the wall

and he is dead.

this year

1988

all these months

have had

a terribleness to them

that I have never felt

before.

I light a cigarette and

wait.

no more, no less

editor, critic, bigot, wit:

what do you expect of me

now that my youth has

flown and even my middle

age is

gone?

I expect what I’ve always

expected:

the hard-driven line

and a bit of help

from the

gods.

as the walls get closer

there should be more to

say

instead of

less.

each day is still a

hammer,

a flower.

editor, critic, bigot, wit:

the grave has no

mirror

and I am still this

machine

this paper

and all the

etceteras.

the lost and the desperate

it was nice to be a boy in a dark movie house,

one entered the dream so much more easily

then.

I liked the French Foreign Legion movies

best and there were many of them

then.

I loved the forts and the sand and the

lost and desperate men.

these men were brave and they had beautiful

eyes.

I never saw men like that

in my neighborhood.

the neighborhood men were hunched and

miserable and angry and

cowardly.

I was going to join the French Foreign Legion.

I sat in the dark movie houses and I was

one of them.

we had been fighting for days without food

and with very little

water.

casualties had been horrendous.

our fort was surrounded, we were down to a

last few.

we propped up our dead comrades with

their rifles pointed toward the

desert

to make the Arabs think that they had not

killed many of us

otherwise we would have been

overwhelmed.

we ran from dead man to dead man

firing their rifles.

our sergeant was wounded

3 or 4 times but

he still commanded

screaming his orders.

then more of us died gallantly, then

we were down to the last two

(one of them the sergeant) but we

fought on, then we were out of

ammunition, the Arabs scaled the walls

on ladders and we knocked them back

with our rifle butts but more and more of

them were clambering over the walls, there

were too many

of them we were

finished, no chance, then there was the sound of a

BUGLE!

reinforcements were arriving!

fresh and rested upon the backs of thunderous

horses!

they charged en masse over the sand,

hundreds of them

dressed in bright and blazing uniforms.

the Arabs scattered down the walls

running for their horses and their

lives

but most of them were

doomed.

then the sergeant, knowing victory, was dying

in my arms.

“Chinaski,” he said to me, “the fort is

ours!”

he gave a small smile, his head fell back and

he was gone.

then I was home again

I was back in my room.

a hunched, miserable and angry man

walked into the room and said,

“get out there now and mow the lawn.

I see a hair of grass sticking up!”

out there in the yard

I pushed the mower over the same grass

once more

back and forth

back and forth

wondering why all the brave men with

beautiful eyes were so far away,

wondering if they’d still be there

when I arrived.

the bully

actually, I do think that

my father was

insane,

the way he drove his

car,

honking,

cursing at people;

the way he got into

violent arguments

in public places

over the most

trivial incidents;

the way he beat

his only child

almost daily

upon the slightest

provocation.

of course, bullies

sometimes meet their

masters.

I remember once

entering the house

and my mother

told me,

“your father was

in a terrible

fight.”

I looked for him,

found him sitting

on the toilet

with the bathroom

door

open.

his face was a mass of

bruises, welts,

puffed and black

eyes.

he even had a broken

arm

in a cast.

I was 13 years old.

I stood looking

at him.

I looked for

some time.

then he screamed,

“what the hell you

staring at!

what’s your

problem?”

I looked at him

some more,

then walked

off.

it was to be

3 years later

that

I would knock him

on his

ass, no problem

with that

at

all.

downers

some people

grind away

making their

unhappiness

the ultimate

factor

of their

existence

until

finally

they are

just

automatically

unhappy,

their

suspicious

upset

snarling

selves

grinding

on

and

at

and

for

and

through

their only

relief

being

to meet

another

unhappy

person

or

to

create

one.

get close enough and you can’t see

at this time

I know a couple of men

who seem to be in

love

while their ladies are treating

them

off-handedly or

worse.

these men are consumed by

their

ill-fate, can’t

climb out of their

fix.

I too

have been in that

way,

only I was

worse

off:

I was charmed and

ensnared by

caseic beldames,

slimey slatterns,

inchoate prostitutes,

hypacodont

mesdames—

all the hustling

shrews of the

universe

found me,

and I

found them

wise

witty and

beautiful

then.

it was only after

some luck of

distance and time

that I was able to

realize

that

these ladies

were even less than

less.

so

now

when these men

tell me their sad

stories

there is nothing I can

say

because to me

their women look

like

hypacodont

beldames,

inchoate

slatterns,

caseic

mesdames

and

slimey

prostitutes,

not to mention

piss-biting

shrews

and they

most

probably

are.

true is true

enough,

yet

at small

tiny and

rare

moments

I wonder

what

I seemed

like

to my

ladies?

the beggars

the poor

in the grandstand section

playing the

daily doubles

the exactas

the pick-6’s

the pick-9’s

they have horrible

jobs

or

no jobs

they come in

beaten

to take another

beating.

scuffed shoes

shirts with buttons

missing,

faded and wrinkled

clothing—

muted eyes,

they are the

unwashed

the

unwanted

the beggars of the

grandstand

and as race after race

unfolds

they are routinely

sucked of

money and

hope

then

the last race is

over

and for a few

there’s the

liquor

store

a bit to drink

and a

lottery

ticket.

for the

others:

nothing.

beggars of the

grandstand.

the State is going

to

make it.

the track is going

to

make

it

thanks to the

Days of the Living

Dead.

well,

the horses are

beautiful

anyhow.

the old horseplayer

he wears the same pants

the same coat

the same shoes

day after day.

his shirttail hangs out.

his shoes are unlaced.

his hair is white and

uncombed.

he is balding.

he walks slowly to make his

bets, then

walks slowly back to his

seat.

he watches each race

without emotion.

he is hooked on nothing but

an impossibility.

he is so tired.

the old horseplayer.

the skies, the mountains,

music, nothing matters to

him.

he’s hooked on an

impossibility.

post time

some of the old rich still make it to

Santa Anita Turf Club parking.

and the old rich still buy Cadillacs—

and he can barely drive the Caddy—

and the valet helps them both

out.

he’s fat and squat, very white, with

merry blue eyes and she’s taller,

dignified but dumb, and her back is

bent.

expensively clothed

they both move toward the Turf Club

entrance

where they are swallowed forever

as the horn sounds to post

and the number one horse steps out

on the track

more beautiful than all the people

more beautiful than all the world

and it

begins.

off and on

at times I still consider coughing it up: gas pipe, 19th floor

window, 3 fifths of whiskey in 4 hours or

slamming at 85 mph into a slab of

concrete.

my first thought of suicide came at age 13 and it has

been with me ever since

through all the botched failures:

sometimes just rather playing at it, little minor

rehearsals;

other times

really trying like hell to

kill myself.

yet, now it’s never totally intense, it’s more like

considering whether to go to a movie or

not or whether to buy a new pair of

shoes.

actually, years go by and the suicidal thoughts

almost completely

abate.

then

suddenly

they return, like:

look here, baby, let’s give it another

shot.

and when it returns it’s fairly

compelling

but not so much in the mind (as in the old

days) but strangely, suicide waits in old little places,

on the back of your neck or

at a spot just under the chin

or along the arms like the sleeves of a

sweater…

it used to hit the gut, now it’s almost like

catching a

rash.

I will be driving along in my car with the radio

on and it will leap at me and I will smile at

it

remembering the old days

when those I knew thought that

my daring crazy acts stemmed from

bravery…

I will drive for several hours

up and down strange streets in

strange neighborhoods

at times

slowing down carefully

where children are playing in the

road.

I will park

go into cafes

drink coffee

read newspapers.

I will hear voices speaking of

ridiculous and dull

things.

I will be back in the car

driving along

and at once

everything will lift:

we all live in the same world:

I will have to pay my gas bill, get a

set of new reading glasses, I will need a

new tire

left rear

and I think I’ve been using my neighbor’s

garbage can.

it is fine to be normal again and

as I pull into the driveway

a large white moon smiles at me

through the windshield of

evening.

I brake, get out, close the car

door, centuries of sadness, gladness and

equilibrium will walk with me up to the door

as I put in the key

unlock it

walk into the place

once again having escaped the

inescapable, I will move toward the

kitchen cabinet for the

bottle

to

celebrate

that

or

whatever there is,

isn’t,

will be,

won’t

be—

like right

now.

balloons

today they shot a guy who was

selling balloons at the

intersection.

they parked their cars at the

curbing

and called him

over.

he came

over.

they argued with him about

the price of a

balloon, they wanted him

to come down in

price.

he said he couldn’t.

one of them started calling

him names.

the other took out a gun

and shot him in the

head.

twice.

he fell

right there

in the street.

they took his balloons,

said, “now we can

party,” and then they

drove off

there are also other guys

at that intersection, they

sell oranges

mostly.

they left then

and they weren’t at the

intersection the next day

or the next or

the next.

nobody was.

recognized

I was at the airport

standing at the arrival section

with my wife

waiting for her sister’s

flight in

when a young man walked up:

“aren’t you Henry Chinaski?”

“well, yes…”

“oh, I thought so!”

there was a pause.

then

he continued: “you don’t

know what this

means to me!

I can’t believe it!

I’ve read all your books!”

“thank you,” I said, “I have to be

thankful for my

readers.”

he gave me his name and we

shook hands.

“this is my wife,” I started…

“Sarah!” he said,

“I know her

from your books!”

another pause.

then:

“I get all your books from Red

down at Baroque…

I still can’t believe it’s

you!”

“it is,” laughed my wife,

“it’s him!”

“well,” he said, “I’ll leave you

alone now!”

“tell Red I said ‘hello.’”

then the young man

moved off.

“he was all right,” I said,

“I usually can’t stand

them.”

“like you say, you have to

be thankful for your

readers.”

“damned right…”

then her sister’s plane tooled

up and we moved with the others

to greet those we knew and those

who knew

us.

them and us

they were all out on the front porch

talking:

Hemingway, Faulkner, T. S. Eliot,

Ezra Pound, Hamsun, Wally Stevens,

e. e. cummings and a few others.

“listen,” said my mother, “can’t you

ask them to stop talking?”

“no,” I said.

“they are talking garbage,” said my

father, “they ought to get

jobs.”

“they have jobs,” I

said.

“like hell,” said my

father.

“exactly,” I

said.

just then Faulkner came

staggering in.

he found the whiskey in the

cupboard and went outside with

it.

“a terrible person,”

said my mother.

then she got up and peeked out

on the porch.

“they’ve got a woman with them,”

she said, “only she looks like a

man.”

“that’s Gertrude,” I

said.

“there’s another guy flexing his

muscles,” she said, “he claims he

can whip any three of

them.”

“that’s Ernie,” I said.

“and he,” my father pointed to me,

“wants to be like them!”

“is that true?” my mother asked.

“not like them,” I said, “but of

them.”

“you get a god-damned job,”

said my father.

“shut up,” I said.

“what?”

“I said, ‘shut up,’ I am listening to

these men.”

my father looked at his wife:

“this is no son of

mine!”

“I hope not,” I said.

Faulkner came staggering into the room

again.

“where’s the telephone?” he

asked.

“what the hell for?” my father

asked.

“Ernie’s just blown his brains

out,” he said.

“you see what happens to men like

that?” screamed my father.

I got up

slowly

and helped Bill find

the

telephone.

luck was not a lady

being half-young I sat about the bars

in it up to the ears

thinking something might happen to

me, I mean, I tried the ladies:

“hey, baby, listen, the golden coast

weeps for your beauty…”

or some such.

their heads never turned, they looked

ahead, straight ahead,

bored.

“hey, baby, listen, I am a

genius, ha ha ha…”

silent before the bar mirror, these

magic creatures, these secret sirens,

big-legged, bursting out of their

dresses, wearing dagger

heels, earrings, strawberry mouths,

just sitting there, sitting there,

sitting there.

one of them told me, “you bore

me.”

“no, baby, you got it

backwards…”

“oh, shut up.”

then in would walk some dandy, some fellow

neat in a suit, pencil mustache, bow tie;

he would be slim, light, delicate

and so knowing

and the ladies would call his

name: “oh, Murray, Murray!”

or some such.

“hi, girls!”

I knew I could deck one of those

fuckers but that hardly mattered in the

scheme of things,

the ladies just gathered around Murray

(or some such) and I just kept ordering

drinks,

sharing the juke music with them

and listening to the laughter from

the outside.

I wondered what wonderful things

I was missing, the secret of the

magic, something that only they knew,

and I felt myself again the idiot in the

schoolyard, sometimes a man never got out

of there—he was marked, it could be told

at a glance

and so

I was shut out,

“I am the lost face of

Janus,” I might say at some

momentary silence.

of course, to be

ignored.

they’d pile out

to cars parked in back

smoking

laughing

finally to drive off

to some consummate

victory

leaving me

to keep on drinking

just me

sitting there

then the face of the

bartender near

mine:

“LAST CALL!”

his meaty indifferent face

cheap in the cheap

light

to have my last drink

go out to my ten year old car

at the curb

get in

to drive ever so carefully

to my rented

room

remembering the schoolyard

again,

recess time,

being chosen next to last

on the baseball team,

the same sun shining on me

as on them,

now it was night,

most people of the world

together.

my cigarette dangling,

I heard the sound of the

engine.

the editor

he sat in the kitchen at the breakfastnook table

reading the manuscripts writing a short rejection

on each replacing the paperclip then

sliding the pages back into the brown

manila envelopes.

he’d been reading for an hour and thirty-five

minutes and hadn’t found a single poem

well he’d have to do the usual thing

for the next issue: write the poems himself and

make up names for the authors.

where was the talent?

for the last 3 decades the poets had

flattened

out it was like reading stuff

from a house of

subnormals.

but

he’d save Rabowski

for last

Rabowski had sent 8 or ten poems in a batch

but always there were one or two

good ones.

he sighed and pulled out the Rabowski

poems.

he slowly read them he finished

he got up went to the refrigerator

got out

a can of beer cracked it sat back

down

he read the poems all over again they were

all bad even Rabowski had

crapped out.

the editor got out a printed rejection slip

wrote “you must have had a bad

week.”

then he slipped the poems back into the

manila envelope sealed it tossed it

on top of the pile for mailing

then he took the beer sat down next to his wife

on the couch

she was watching Johnny Carson

he watched

Carson was bad Carson knew he was bad but

he couldn’t do anything about

it.

the editor got up with his can of beer and

began walking up the

stairway.

“where are you going?” his wife

asked.

“to bed to sleep.”

“but it’s early.”

“god damn it I know that!”

“well you needn’t act that way

about it!”

he walked into the bedroom flicked on

the wall switch

there was a small bright flash and then

the overhead light burned

out.

he sat on the edge of the bed and finished his

beer in the

dark.

duck and forget it

today at the track

I was standing alone

looking down

when I saw these

two shoes

moving directly

toward

me

at once

I started into motion

toward my right

but he still caught part of

me:

“making any money

today?”

“yeah,” I answered and

was gone.

not too many years ago

I would have stood

there

while this slipped

soul

unloaded his

inanities on

me

pissing over my day

and my feelings

as he made me pay

for where he allowed

himself to be

in his mind

and in his

life.

no longer.

yet I am my brother’s

keeper.

I keep him

away.

snapshots at the track

I go to the men’s crapper

for a bowel

movement,

get up to flush.

what the hell.

something blood-dark

falls upon the

seat.

I’m 70, I

drink.

have been on my deathbed

twice.

I reach down for what has

fallen…

it’s a small burnt

potato chip

from my

lunch.

not yet…

damn thing fell from my

shirt…

I finish my toiletry,

go out and watch the

race.

my horse runs

second

chasing a 25-to-one

shot

to the

wire.

I don’t mind.

then I see this fellow

rushing toward me,

he always needs a

shave, his glasses seem

about to fall off

his face,

he knows me

and maybe I know

him.

“hey, Hank, Hank!”

we shake hands like two

lost souls.

“always good to see you,”

he says, “it refreshes

me, I know you lead a

hard life

just like I

do.”

“sure, kid, how you

doing?”

he tells me that he is

a big winner

then

rushes off.

the big board

overhead

flashes the first odds

on the next

race.

I check my program

decide to leave the

clubhouse,

try my luck in the

grandstand,

that’s where a hard-living

player belongs

anyhow,

right?

right.

x-idol

I never watch tv so I don’t know

but I’m told he was the leading man in a

long-running

series.

he does movie bits

now

I see him at the track almost every

day (“I used to have women coming out of

my ass,” he once informed me).

and people still remember him, call him

by name and my wife often asks me, “did

you see him today?”

“oh yes, he’s a gambling son of a bitch.”

the track is where you go when the other

action drops away.

he still looks like a celebrity, the way

he walks and talks and

I never meet him without feeling

good.

the toteboard flashes.

the sky shakes.

the mountains call us home.

heat wave

another one.

this night the people sit drunk or drugged or some of them

sit in front of their tv sets

slapped silly.

some few have air-conditioning.

the neighborhood dogs and cats flop about

waiting for a better time.

and I remember the cars along the freeway today

some of them stalled in the fast lane,

hoods up.

there are more murders in the heat

more domestic arguments.

Los Angeles has been burning for

weeks.

even the desperately lonely have not phoned

and that alone

makes all this almost

worthwhile:

those little mewling voices cooked into

silence

as I listen to the music of a long dead man

written in the 19th

century.

we ain’t got no money, honey, but we got rain

call it the greenhouse effect or whatever

but it just doesn’t rain like it

used to.

I particularly remember the rains of the

depression era.

there wasn’t any money but there was

plenty of rain.

it wouldn’t rain for just a night or

a day,

it would RAIN for 7 days and 7

nights

and in Los Angeles the storm drains

weren’t built to carry off that much

water

and the rain came down THICK and

MEAN and

STEADY

and you HEARD it banging against

the roofs and into the ground

waterfalls of it came down

from the roofs

and often there was HAIL

big ROCKS OF ICE

bombing

exploding

smashing into things

and the rain

just wouldn’t

STOP

and all the roofs leaked—

dishpans,

cooking pots

were placed all about;

they dripped loudly

and had to be emptied

again and

again

the rain came up over the street curbings,

across the lawns, climbed the steps and

entered the houses.

there were mops and bathroom towels,

and the rain often came up through the

toilets: bubbling, brown, crazy, whirling,

and the old cars stood in the streets,

cars that had problems starting on a

sunny day,

and the jobless men stood

looking out the windows

at the old machines dying

like living things

out there.

the jobless men,

failures in a failing time

were imprisoned in their houses with their

wives and children

and their

pets.

the pets refused to go out

and left their waste in

strange places.

the jobless men went mad

confined with

their once beautiful wives.

there were terrible arguments

as notices of foreclosure

fell into the mailbox.

rain and hail, cans of beans,

bread without butter; fried

eggs, boiled eggs, poached

eggs; peanut butter

sandwiches, and an invisible

chicken

in every pot.

my father, never a good man

at best, beat my mother

when it rained

as I threw myself

between them,

the legs, the knees, the

screams

until they

separated.

“I’ll kill you,” I screamed

at him. “You hit her again

and I’ll kill you!”

“Get that son-of-a-bitching

kid out of here!”

“no, Henry, you stay with

your mother!”

all the households were under

siege but I believe that ours

held more terror than the

average.

and at night

as we attempted to sleep

the rains still came down

and it was in bed

in the dark

watching the moon against

the scarred window

so bravely

holding out

most of the rain,

I thought of Noah and the

Ark

and I thought, it has come

again.

we all thought

that.

and then, at once, it would

stop.

and it always seemed to

stop

around 5 or 6 a.m.,

peaceful then,

but not an exact silence

because things continued to

drip

drip

drip

and there was no smog then

and by 8 a.m.

there was a

blazing yellow sunlight,

Van Gogh yellow—

crazy, blinding!

and then

the roof drains

relieved of the rush of

water

began to expand in

the warmth:

PANG! PANG! PANG!

and everybody got up

and looked outside

and there were all the lawns

still soaked

greener than green will ever

be

and there were the birds

on the lawn

CHIRPING like mad,

they hadn’t eaten decently

for 7 days and 7 nights

and they were weary of

berries

and

they waited as the worms

rose to the top,

half-drowned worms.

the birds plucked them

up

and gobbled them

down; there were

blackbirds and sparrows.

the blackbirds tried to

drive the sparrows off

but the sparrows,

maddened with hunger,

smaller and quicker,

got their

due.

the men stood on their porches

smoking cigarettes,

now knowing

they’d have to go out

there

to look for that job

that probably wasn’t

there, to start that car

that probably wouldn’t

start.

and the once beautiful

wives

stood in their bathrooms

combing their hair,

applying makeup,

trying to put their world back

together again,

trying to forget that

awful sadness that

gripped them,

wondering what they could

fix for

breakfast.

and on the radio

we were told that

school was now

open.

and

soon

there I was

on the way to school,

massive puddles in the

street,

the sun like a new

world,

my parents back in that

house,

I arrived at my classroom

on time.

Mrs. Sorenson greeted us

with, “we won’t have our

usual recess, the grounds

are too wet.”

“AW!” most of the boys

went.

“but we are going to do

something special at

recess,” she went on,

“and it will be

fun!”

well, we all wondered

what that would

be

and the two hour wait

seemed a long time

as Mrs. Sorenson

went about

teaching her

lessons.

I looked at the little

girls, they all looked so

pretty and clean and

alert,

they sat still and

straight

and their hair was

beautiful

in the California

sunshine.

then the recess bell rang

and we all waited for the

fun.

then Mrs. Sorenson told

us:

“now, what we are going to

do is we are going to tell

each other what we did

during the rainstorm!

we’ll begin in the front

row and go right around!

now, Michael, you’re

first!…”

well, we all began to tell

our stories, Michael began

and it went on and on,

and soon we realized that

we were all lying, not

exactly lying but mostly

lying and some of the boys

began to snicker and some

of the girls began to give

them dirty looks and

Mrs. Sorenson said,

“all right, I demand a

modicum of silence

here!

I am interested in what

you did

during the rainstorm

even if you

aren’t!”

so we had to tell our

stories and they were

stories.

one girl said that

when the rainbow first

came

she saw God’s face

at the end of it.

only she didn’t say

which end.

one boy said he stuck

his fishing pole

out the window

and caught a little

fish

and fed it to his

cat.

almost everybody told

a lie.

the truth was just

too awful and

embarrassing to

tell.

then the bell rang

and recess was

over.

“thank you,” said Mrs.

Sorenson, “that was very

nice

and tomorrow the grounds

will be dry

and we will put them

to use

again.”

most of the boys

cheered

and the little girls

sat very straight and

still,

looking so pretty and

clean and

alert,

their hair beautiful

in a sunshine that

the world might

never see

again.

crime and punishment

Mr. Sanderson was the principal of

my high school

and it seemed that much

of the time

I was in Mr. Sanderson’s

office

and I had no idea

why.

the teacher would send me down

with a sealed

envelope.

Mr. Sanderson would open the

envelope

read the enclosure

and then look at

me.

“well, here we are

again!

we just can’t behave ourselves,

can

we?”

he always said the same

thing.

I rather liked the idea of

being bad

but I had no idea

that I

was.

I didn’t protest

because

I thought that

the teachers were

stupid

and that

Mr. Sanderson was

stupid

so

there was nobody

to protest

to.

certainly not

my parents

who were more stupid

than

any of

them.

“all right,” Mr. Sanderson would

say, “go into the phone booth,

close the door

and don’t come out until I

tell you

to.”

it was one of those

glassed in phone booths with a

little seat.

all the times I sat there

the phone never

rang.

and it was stuffy

in there.

all you could do in there

was think

and I didn’t want to

think.

Mr. Sanderson knew that.

there were magazines in

there

but they were all dull,

fancy ladies

magazines

but I read them

anyhow

and that really made me

feel bad

which was what Mr.

Sanderson wanted.

finally

after one or two hours

he would bang on the

door with his big

fist and yell, “ALL RIGHT,

YOU CAN COME OUT OF THERE

NOW

AND I DON’T EVER WANT TO

SEE YOU IN HERE AGAIN!”

but

I’d be back

many times

never knowing

why.

finally

like somebody doing

time

I got out of that

high school

and it was a couple

of years later

that I read

in the newspaper

that Mr. Sanderson

had been

prosecuted

fined and

jailed

for

embezzlement of

school

funds.

while I had been

in that phone booth

diddling with

myself

that son of a

bitch

had been making

his

moves.

I felt like

going down to

the jail

and dumping a

bunch of

Ladies’ Home Journal

on him

but of course

I didn’t.

I felt good enough

about it

just the way it

was.

the soldier, his wife and the bum

I was a bum in San Francisco but once managed

to go to a symphony concert along with the well-dressed

people

and the music was good but something about the

audience was not

and something about the orchestra

and the conductor was

not,

although the building was fine and the

acoustics perfect

I preferred to listen to the music alone

on my radio

and afterwards I did go back to my room and I

turned on the radio but

then there was a pounding on the wall:

“SHUT THAT GOD-DAMNED THING OFF!”

there was a soldier in the next room

living with his wife

and he would soon be going over there to protect

me from Hitler so

I snapped the radio off and then heard his

wife say, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

and the soldier said, “FUCK THAT GUY!”

which I thought was a very nice thing for him

to tell his wife to do.

of course,

she never did.

anyhow, I never went to another live concert

and that night I listened to the radio very

quietly, my ear pressed to the

speaker.

war has its price and peace never lasts and

millions of young men everywhere would die

and as I listened to the classical music I

heard them making love, desperately and

mournfully, through Shostakovich, Brahms,

Mozart, through crescendo and climax,

and through the shared

wall of our darkness.

Bonaparte’s Retreat

Fred, they called him.

he always sat at the end of the

bar

near the doorway

and he was always there

from opening to

closing.

he was there more than

I was,

which is saying

something.

he never talked to

anybody.

he just sat there

drinking his glasses of

draft beer.

he looked straight ahead

right across the bar

but he never looked at

anybody.

and there’s one other

thing.

he got up

now and then

and went to the

jukebox

and he always played the

same record:

Bonaparte’s Retreat.

he played that song

all day and all night

long.

it was his song,

all right.

he never got tired

of it.

and when his draft beers

really got to him

he’d get up and play

Bonaparte’s Retreat

6 or 7 times

running.

nobody knew who he was or

how he made

it,

only that he lived in a

hotel room

across the street

and was the first customer

in the bar

each day

as it

opened.

I protested to Clyde

the bartender:

“listen, he’s driving us

crazy with that

thing.

eventually, all the other

records are

rotated

but

Bonaparte’s Retreat

remains.

what does it

mean?”

“it’s his song,”

said Clyde.

“don’t you have a

song?”

well, I came in about one

p.m. this day

and all the regulars

were there

but Fred wasn’t

there.

I ordered my drink,

then said out loud,

“hey, where’s

Fred?”

“Fred’s dead,”

said Clyde.

I looked down at the end

of the bar.

the sun came through the

blinds

but there was nobody

at the end

stool.

“you’re kidding me,”

I said, “Fred’s back in the

crapper or

something.”

“Fred didn’t come in this

morning,” said Clyde, “so

I went over to his

hotel room

and there he

was

stiff as a

cigar

box.”

everybody was very

quiet.

those guys never said

much

anyhow.

“well,” I said, “at least

we won’t have to hear

Bonaparte’s Retreat

anymore.”

nobody said

anything.

“is that record

still in the

juke?” I

asked.

“yes,” said

Clyde.

“well,” I said,

“I’m going to play it

one more time.”

I got up.

“hold it,”

said Clyde.

he came around the bar,

walked to the

juke

box.

he had a little key

in his

hand.

he put the key

in the juke

and opened

it.

he reached in

and pulled

out a

record.

then he took the

record and

broke it over

his

knee.

“it was his

song,” said

Clyde.

then he locked

the juke,

took the broken

record

behind the bar

and

trashed

it.

the name of the

bar

was

fewel’s.

it was at

Crenshaw and

Adams

and it’s not

there

anymore.

flat tire

got a flat on the freeway

11 a.m.

going north

I got over to the

side

a small strip

on the freeway

edge

got out the jack

and the

spare

went to

work

the big rigs

going by

blasts of air and

noise

shaking everything

and to top it

all

it was

cold

an icy

wind

and I thought,

Jesus Christ, mercy,

can I do this

thing?

this would be a

good place to

go crazy and

chuck it all

in

but I got the

new wheel

on,

the old one

in the trunk

and then I was

back in the

car

I gunned it into

the swirl of

traffic

and there I was

like nothing

had ever

happened

moving along

with everybody

else

all of us

caught up in our

petty larcenies

and our

rotting

virtues

I gunned it

hard

made the fast

lane

pushed the

button

as my radio

antenna

sliced into the

sky.

oh, I was a ladies’ man!

you

wonder about

the time

when

you ran through women

like an open-field

maniac

with this total

disregard for

panties, dish towels,

photos

and all the other

accoutrements—

like

the tangling of

souls.

what

were you

trying to

do

trying to

catch up

with?

it was like a

hunt.

how many

could you

bag?

move

onto?

names

shoes

dresses

sheets, bathrooms

bedrooms, kitchens

back

rooms,

cafes,

pets,

names of pets,

names of children;

middle names, last

names, made-up

names.

you proved it was

easy.

you proved it

could be done

again and

again,

those legs held

high

behind most of

you.

or

they were on top

or

you were

behind

or

both

sideways

plus

other

inventions.

songs on radios.

parked cars.

telephone voices.

the pouring of

drinks.

the senseless

conversations.

now you know

you were nothing but a

fucking

dog,

a snail wrapped around

a snail—

sticky shells in the

sunlight, or in

the misty evenings,

or in the dark

dark.

you were

nature’s

idiot,

not proving but

being

proved.

not a man but a

plan

unfolding,

not thrusting but

being

pierced.

now

you know.

then

you thought you were

such a

clever devil

such a

cad

such a

man-bull

such a

bad boy

smiling over your

wine

planning your next

move

what a

waste of time

you were

you great

rider

you Attila of

the springs and

elsewhere

you could have

slept through it

all

and you would never

have been

missed

never would have

been

missed

at

all.

inactive volcano

the bartender at Musso’s

remembers me when

I was

in rags,

used to

lean on the wood

with the

worst and loudest of

women

and

we would

drink too much

spill our drinks

get

nasty.

now

I enter

quietly with an

interviewer

a film director

or some

actor

or

with my wife

and a gentle

friend or

two.

at times

now

I see the bartender

looking at me

and I know

he’s thinking

of back then

the way it

was

and I look

back at him

and my eyes

send the

message:

I’m just the

same, friend, only

the circumstances

have

altered

but

I’m

the same.

then I

turn back

to

whomever

I am with

and they

too

seem to be

thinking,

when is he

going to go

crazy

again?

nothing

to do,

friend,

but

wait

and

see.

creative writing class

I’m guilty, I did take one

in college

and the first thing I realized was that

I could beat the hell out of any

2 or 3 people in there

at once

(physically

I mean)

and

of course

this was no way to measure

creativity.

also

I noticed that the professor’s advice

on what to do

and what not to do

to become a writer was

very pale and standard stuff

that would lead to

nowhere.

some of the students’ work

was read in class

and I found it to be embarrassingly

inept.

I sat alone in the back row with

my scowl

further noting that

the men didn’t look like men and

the women didn’t look like women.

again

no way to judge creativity.

but what they produced

looked like

what they were.

well

at least the prof did give me

“A’s” on all the work

I turned in

but I got a “B” overall for

poor attendance.

I also knew that

every student in that class

except one

was

creatively doomed.

and even that one

would be 50 years old

before even minor notice

would be taken of

his work.

a bit longer

than even he

had

expected.

cool black air

often from my typing room I step out onto this small

balcony

and there is the night

a cool wash of black air.

I stand in slippers, shorts and undershirt, sucking at

a small cigarette, I can see the curling headlights of

the cars on the winding Harbor Freeway.

they come and come, those lights, they never stop

and I truly wonder that life is still here

after all these centuries, after the hell of

all of our error and our smallness and our

greed, our

selfishness, our bitterness,

life is still here

and the thought of that makes me strangely

elated.

of course, I am woozy from hours of

typing.

and now

the same dog in that yard to the far left barks at me

again.

he should know that old fart standing there in his shorts,

he should know me by now.

I turn and walk back into my typing room.

the typewriter is electric and it is on and it

hums hums hums hums.

last night I did something very odd: after ripping out

a few poems

I covered the machine

then bent down and kissed it once, and said,

“thank you, very much.”

after 50 years in the game I had finally thanked my

typewriter.

now I sit down to it and I BANG IT, I don’t use the light

touch, I BANG IT, I want to hear it, I want it to do its

tricks, it has saved my ass from the worst of women and the

worst of men and the

worst of jobs, it has mellowed my nightmares into a gentle

sanity, it has loved me at my lowest and it has made me

seem to be a greater soul than I ever

was.

I BANG IT I BANG IT

and I know how all of them felt, all the writers, when it was

going good, when it was going hot.

death, I have chopped off your arms and your legs and your

head.

I am sorry, I know you just do what you have to

do

even to that barking dog

but now

I BANG IT

BANG IT

and wait.

the jackals

as the years went on I seemed to have more luck

but now these jackals

these attackers from the past reappear as if

nothing had ever

occurred (one doesn’t mind literary

criticism so long as the envy and the rancor

do not show through)

and now I meet the jackals in eating

places etc.

some even come to the door

bringing entire families—mothers, fathers,

old aunts…

the jackals turn on the charm

and I don’t mind, let the past be

done, I pour the drinks and

listen.

it is afterwards that it occurs, usually

within a week:

a large manuscript arrives with

note: “could you read this?

publisher would like a foreword from

you…”

I brace myself, flop on the bed, give it

a read: the writing is proficient

but somewhere there is a terrible

lacking, an unnatural void…

the manuscript makes me a bit ill;

I let it fall to the

floor.

the other night I made a brief

appearance at a theater where my

video was showing and

as I was leaving

here came the poet, glass of

cheap free wine in his hand, he

poked his face into mine

and repeated his same speech all

over again as if he had forgotten

he had given it

to me before.

“remember me? we met at L’s.

there’s this new mag starting, it’s

going to be better than Rolling

Stone…

what they want me to do is

interview you and you interview me,

we get a thousand a-piece, maybe

more…”

(said jackal had attacked me in an

article after begging me to go

to the boxing matches with him.

his face was continually

in mine, talking, talking,

“listen,” I told him, “let’s just

watch the fights…”

he had told

me he was there to cover the

fights, but he wasn’t: the

article was about me: a

terrible human being who was a

drunk and far past his prime.)

now he kept shoving his face into

mine there on the sidewalk,

repeating his spiel: “I interview

you, you interview me…one

thousand, what do you think, huh,

huh?”

“I’ll let you know,” I told

him.

but he just kept walking along,

pushing his face into mine…

well, I thought, I am going to

have to punch him out.

but I tried something else

first:

“get the fuck away from me!”

he backed off and I walked off

to a better place…

give it a week, I came in from the

track one evening and here was a

large package: 3 of his latest

books from a local press.

I flipped through the pages:

a breezy, bantering style

playing the open, good

human guy but it was like he

was writing on benzedrine

lashing you with shreds of his

soul,

but it was more boring-than

derring-do.

there was a note with phone

number, home address:

“I’ll interview you, you

interview me, the editor thinks

it’s a great idea…and there’s a

grand a-piece in it for each of

us, maybe more…”

I walked into the kitchen and

dumped him into the trash

bag.

I fed the cats and then the phone

rang.

it was a new voice:

“Chinaski?”

“yes?”

“listen, you don’t know me

but my name is Dipper

and I got a great deal for

you.”

“listen, how did you get my

phone number?”

“hey, man, what difference

does that make?”

I hung up.

in a moment the phone was ringing

again.

I walked into the front room

looked out the south window, it

looked fine out there: trees, lawn,

shrubbery,

not a jackal in

sight.

warm light

alone

tonight

in this house,

alone with

6 cats

who tell me

without

effort

all that there

is

to know.

4

in the shadow of the rose

Dinosauria, we

born like this

into this

as the chalk faces smile

as Mrs. Death laughs

as the elevators break

as political landscapes dissolve

as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree

as the oily fish spit out their oily prey

as the sun is masked

we are

born like this

into this

into these carefully mad wars

into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness

into bars where people no longer speak to each other

into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings

born into this

into hospitals which are so expensive that it’s cheaper to die

into lawyers who charge so much it’s cheaper to plead guilty

into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed

into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes

born into this

walking and living through this

dying because of this

muted because of this

castrated

debauched

disinherited

because of this

fooled by this

used by this

pissed on by this

made crazy and sick by this

made violent

made inhuman

by this

the heart is blackened

the fingers reach for the throat

the gun

the knife

the bomb

the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god

the fingers reach for the bottle

the pill

the powder

we are born into this sorrowful deadliness

we are born into a government 60 years in debt

that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt

and the banks will burn

money will be useless

there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets

it will be guns and roving mobs

land will be useless

food will become a diminishing return

nuclear power will be taken over by the many

explosions will continually shake the earth

radiated robot men will stalk each other

the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms

Dante’s Inferno will be made to look like a children’s playground

the sun will not be seen and it will always be night

trees will die

all vegetation will die

radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men

the sea will be poisoned

the lakes and rivers will vanish

rain will be the new gold

the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind

the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases

and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition

the petering out of supplies

the natural effect of general decay

and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard

born out of that.

the sun still hidden there

awaiting the next chapter.

cut while shaving

It’s never quite right, he said, the way the people look,

the way the music sounds, the way the words are

written.

it’s never quite right, he said, all the things we are

taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we

die, all the lives we live,

they are never quite right,

they are hardly close to right,

these lives we live

one after the other,

piled there as history,

the waste of the species,

the crushing of the light and the way,

it’s not quite right,

it’s hardly right at all

he said.

don’t I know it? I

answered.

I walked away from the mirror.

it was morning, it was afternoon, it was

night

nothing changed

it was locked in place.

something flashed, something broke, something

remained.

I walked down the stairway and

into it.

a good job

some jobs you like,

there is a clean gentle

feel to some of them,

like the one I had

unloading boxcars

of frozen

fish.

the fish came packed

in coffin-sized boxes,

beautifully

heavy and

almost

unyielding.

you had thick gloves

and a hook

and you gaffed the

damned thing

and pulled it along

the floor and slid it

outside and onto the

waiting

truck.

and strangely there

was no foreman,

they just turned us

loose in there

knowing we’d get

it done.

we were always

sending out one of

the fellows for another

bottle of

wine.

it was slippery and

cold in those

boxcars

we yanked out those

iced fish,

drank the wine

and the bullshit

flew.

there was a

fight or two

but nothing really

violent.

I was the peacemaker.

“come on, fuck

that stuff!

let’s get these

fish out of

here!

yeah!”

then we’d be

laughing and

bullshitting

again.

toward evening

we all got quiet.

the fish seemed to

get heavier and

heavier.

shins got cracked,

knees

bruised

and the wine

settled heavily

into our

guts.

by the time you

got to your last box

you bullied it

out of there

strictly on nerve

alone.

when you punched

out

even the timecard

seemed

heavy.

and then you were

in your old car

moving toward

your place,

your shackjob,

wondering

whether good times

or hell

awaited

you.

but the frozen fish

you had

worked,

that thought was

pleasant and

soothing,

and you’d be back

for more,

hooking the wood

and dragging.

the night came

on and you flicked

the headlights

on

and the world was

good enough,

right

then.

last seat at the end

I was always studying the wood of the

bar, the grains, the scratches, the

cigarette burns.

there was something there but I

couldn’t quite figure what it

was

and that kept me going.

another one was to look at my

hand around the

glass.

there is something about

one’s hand about a

glass that is gently

fascinating.

and, of course, there is this one:

all drunks do it:

taking your thumbnail and slowly

ripping off the label

on a bottle of beer that has been

soaking in the icewater.

smoking cigarettes is a good show

too, especially in the early morning

hours with the Venetian blinds at

your back,

the smoke curls up and forms its

divergent patterns.

this gives one the feeling of

peace

and really so, more so,

if there is one of your favorite

old songs

emanating from the

juke.

and if the bartender was old

and a little tired and a little bit

wise

it was good to see where he

was or what he was doing—

washing glasses or leaning

against the counter or

sneaking a quick

shot

or whatever he was doing

it was always nice to just

see a bit of him,

to take note of the white

shirt.

the white shirt was an

important backdrop to

drink to and

with.

also you listened to the

traffic going by,

car by car.

it was not a deliberate

listening—more an offhand

one.

and it was best when

it had rained

and you could hear the

tires on the

wet street.

the bar was the best

place to hide in.

time came under your

control, time to wade

in, time to do nothing

in.

no guru was needed,

no god.

nothing expected but

yourself

and nothing lost

to the

unexpected.

my uncle Jack

my uncle Jack

is a mouse

is a house on fire

is a war about to begin

is a man running down the street with a knife in his back.

my uncle Jack

is the Santa Monica pier

is a dusty blue pillow

is a scratching black-and-white dog

is a man with one arm lighting a cigarette with one hand.

my uncle Jack

is a slice of burnt toast

is the place you forgot to look for the key

is the pleasure of finding 3 rolls of toilet paper in the closet

is the worst dream you’ve ever had that you can’t remember.

my uncle Jack

is the firecracker that went off in your hand

is your run-over cat dead outside your driveway at 10:30 a.m.

is the crap game you won in the Santa Anita parking lot

is the man your woman left you for that night in the cheap hotel room.

my uncle Jack

is your uncle Jack

is death coming like a freight train

is a clown with weeping eyes

is your car jack and your fingernails and the scream of the biggest mountain now.

the area of pause

you have to have it or the walls will close

in.

you have to give everything up, throw it

away, everything away.

you have to look at what you look at

or think what you think

or do what you do

or

don’t do

without considering personal

advantage

without accepting guidance.

people are worn away with

striving,

they hide in common

habits.

their concerns are herd

concerns.

few have the ability to stare

at an old shoe for

ten minutes

or to think of odd things

like who invented the

doorknob?

they become unalive

because they are unable to

pause

undo themselves

unkink

unsee

unlearn

roll clear.

listen to their untrue

laughter, then

walk

away.

my first computer poem

have I gone the way of the deathly death?

will this machine finish me

where booze and women and poverty

have not?

is Whitman laughing at me from his grave?

does Creeley care?

is this properly spaced?

am I?

will Ginsberg howl?

soothe me!

get me lucky!

get me good!

get me going!

I am a virgin again.

a 70 year old virgin.

don’t fuck me, machine

do.

who cares?

talk to me, machine!

we can drink together.

we can have fun.

think of all the people who will hate me at this

computer.

we’ll add them to the others

and continue right

on.

so this is the beginning

not the

end.

Rossini, Mozart and Shostakovich

are who I will hear tonight

after reading about the death of Red Grange.

my wife and I ate at a Japanese restaurant tonight

and I told her that Red Grange had died.

I had red bean ice cream for dessert.

my wife declined.

the war was still on in the Gulf.

we got into the car and I drove us back here.

now I am listening to Rossini

who died before Red Grange.

now the audience is applauding.

now the players are readying for Mozart.

Red Grange got a hell of a write-up in the papers.

now Mozart is beginning.

I am smoking a small cigarette imported from India.

4 of my 6 cats are asleep in the next room.

my wife is downstairs.

outside it is a cold, still winter night.

I blow smoke into the desk lamp and watch it curl.

Mozart is doing very well.

Shostakovich is getting ready.

it is a late Tuesday evening.

and Red Grange is dead.

it’s a shame

a great mind and a good body seldom go

together.

or a great body and a good

mind.

or a great body and a great

mind.

but worse, a not so good mind and a

not so good body often go

together.

in fact, that’s almost the entire

populace.

and all these

reproducing more of

themselves.

is there any wonder why the world

is where it’s at

now?

just notice the creature sitting near you

in a movie house

or standing ahead of you in a

supermarket line.

or giving a State of the Union

Address.

that the gods have let us go on

this long

this badly.

as the snail comes crawling home

to manna.

what a writer

what I liked about e. e. cummings

was that he cut away from

the holiness of the

word

and with charm

and gamble

gave us lines

that sliced through the

dung.

how it was needed!

how we were withering

away

in the old

tired

manner.

of course, then came all

the

e. e. cummings

copyists.

they copied him then

as the others had

copied Keats, Shelley,

Swinburne, Byron, et

al.

but there was only

one

e. e. cummings.

of course.

one sun.

one moon.

one poet,

like

that.

hangovers

I’ve probably had about more of them

than any person alive

and they haven’t killed me

yet

but some of those mornings felt

awfully near

death.

as you know, the worst drinking is done

on an empty stomach, while smoking

heavily and downing many different

types of

libations.

and the worst hangovers are when you

awaken in your car or in a strange room

or in an alley or in jail.

the worst hangovers are when you

awaken to realize that you have done

something absolutely vile, ignorant and

possibly dangerous the night before

but

you can’t quite remember what it

was.

and you awaken in various states of

disorder—parts of your body

damaged, your money missing

and/or possibly and often your

car, if you had one.

you might place a telephone call to

a lady, if you were with one, most

often to have her slam the phone

down on you.

or, if she is next to you then,

to feel her bristling and outrageous

anger.

drunks are never forgiven.

but drunks will forgive themselves

because they need to drink

again.

it takes an ungodly durability to

be a drinking person for many

decades.

your drinking companions are

killed by it.

you yourself are in and out of

hospitals

where the warning often is:

“One more drink will kill

you.”

but

you beat that

by taking more than one more

drink.

and as you near three quarters of

a century in age

you find that it takes more and more

booze to get you

drunk.

and the hangovers are worse,

the recovery stage is

longer.

and the most remarkably stupid

thing is

that you are not unpleased that

you have done it

all

and that you are still

doing it.

I am typing this now

under the yoke of one of my

worst hangovers

while downstairs now

sit various and sundry

bottles of

alcohol.

it’s all been so beastly

lovely,

this mad river,

this gouging

plundering

madness

that I would wish upon

nobody

but myself,

amen.

they are everywhere

the tragedy-sniffers are all

about.

they get up in the morning

and begin to find things

wrong

and they fling themselves

into a rage about

it,

a rage that lasts until

bedtime,

where even there

they twist in their

insomnia,

not able to rid their

minds

of the petty obstacles

they have

encountered.

they feel set against,

it’s a plot.

and by being constantly

angry they feel that

they are constantly

right.

you see them in traffic

honking wildly

at the slightest

infraction,

cursing,

spewing their

invectives.

you feel them

in lines

at banks

at supermarkets

at movies,

they are pressing

at your back

walking on your

heels,

they are impatient to

a fury.

they are everywhere

and into

everything,

these violently

unhappy

souls.

actually they are

frightened,

never wanting to be

wrong

they lash out

incessantly…

it is a malady

an illness of

that

breed.

the first one

I saw like that

was my

father

and since then

I have seen a

thousand

fathers,

ten thousand

fathers

wasting their lives

in hatred,

tossing their lives

into the

cesspool

and

ranting

on.

war

war, war, war,

the yellow monster,

the eater of mind

and body.

war,

the indescribable,

the pleasure of

the mad,

the final argument

of

ungrown men.

does it belong?

do we?

as we approach

the last flash of

our chance.

one flower left.

one second.

breathing like this.

the idiot

I believe the thought came to me

when I was about eleven years

old:

I’ll become an idiot.

I had noticed some in the neighborhood,

those who the people called

“idiots.”

although looked down upon,

the idiots seemed to have the

more peaceful lives:

nothing was expected of

them.

I imagined myself standing upon

streetcorners, hands in pockets,

and drooling a bit at the

mouth.

nobody would bother

me.

I began to put my plan into

effect.

I was first noticed in the

school yards.

my mates jibed at me,

taunted me.

even my father noticed:

“you act like a god damned

idiot!”

one of my teachers noticed,

Mrs. Gredis of the long silken

legs.

she kept me after

class.

“what is it, Henry?

you can tell me…”

she put her arms

about me

and I rested myself

against

her.

“tell me, Henry, don’t

be afraid…”

I didn’t say

anything.

“you can stay here

as long as you

want, Henry.

you don’t have to

talk…”

she kissed me on the

forehead

and I reached down

and lightly touched

one of her silken

legs.

Mrs. Gredis was a

hot number.

she kept me after

school almost every

day.

and everybody hated

me

but I believe that I

had the most wonderful

hard-ons

of any eleven year old

boy

in the city of

Los Angeles

this rejoinder

the people survive to come up with flat fists full

of nothing.

I remember Carl Sandburg’s poem, “The

People, Yes.”

nice thought but completely inaccurate:

the people did not survive through a noble

strength but through lie, compromise and

guile.

I lived with these people, I am not so sure

what people Sandburg lived

with.

but his poem always pissed me off.

it was a poem that lied.

it is “The People, No.”

then and now.

and it doesn’t take a misanthrope to

say this.

let us hope that future famous poems

such as Mr. Sandburg’s

make more

sense.

Hemingway never did this

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a

train and that they never were recovered.

I can’t match the agony of this

but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem

upon this computer

and through my lack of diligence and

practice

and by playing around with commands

on the menu

I somehow managed to erase the poem

forever.

believe me, such a thing is difficult to do

even for a novice

but I somehow managed to do

it.

now I don’t think this 3-pager was immortal

but there were some crazy wild lines,

now gone forever.

it bothers more than a touch, it’s something

like knocking over a good bottle of

wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good

poem.

still, I thought somehow you’d like to

know?

if not, at least you’ve read this far

and there could be better work

down the line.

let’s hope so, for your sake

and

mine.

surprise time again

it’s always a surprise to some

when the killer is that clean-cut

quiet boy with the gentle smile

who went to church

and was nearly a straight-A

student

and also good on the athletic

field,

kind to his elders,

adored by the young girls,

the old ones,

admired by his

peers.

“I can’t believe he did it…”

they always think a killer must

be ugly, gross, unlikable,

that he must give off signs,

signals of anger and

madness.

sometimes these kill

too.

but a potential killer can never

be judged by his

externals

nor a politician, a priest or

a poet.

or the dog

or the woman

wagging

tails.

the killer sits anywhere

like you

as you read this

wondering.

young in New Orleans

starving there, sitting around the bars,

and at night walking the streets for

hours,

the moonlight always seemed fake

to me, maybe it was,

and in the French Quarter I watched

the horses and buggies going by,

everybody sitting high in the open

carriages, the black driver, and in

back the man and the woman,

usually young and always white.

and I was always white.

and hardly charmed by the

world.

New Orleans was a place to

hide.

I could piss away my life,

unmolested.

except for the rats.

the rats in my dark small room

very much resented sharing it

with me.

they were large and fearless

and stared at me with eyes

that spoke

an unblinking

death.

women were beyond me.

they saw something

depraved.

there was one waitress

a little older than

I, she rather smiled,

lingered when she

brought my

coffee.

that was plenty for

me, that was

enough.

there was something about

that city, though:

it didn’t let me feel guilty

that I had no feeling for the

things so many others

needed.

it let me alone.

sitting up in my bed

the lights out,

hearing the outside

sounds,

lifting my cheap

bottle of wine,

letting the warmth of

the grape

enter

me

as I heard the rats

moving about the

room,

I preferred them

to

humans.

being lost,

being crazy maybe

is not so bad

if you can be

that way:

undisturbed.

New Orleans gave me

that.

nobody ever called

my name.

no telephone,

no car,

no job,

no

anything.

me and the

rats

and my youth,

one time,

that time

I knew

even through the

nothingness,

it was a

celebration

of something not to

do

but only

know.

the damnation of Buk

getting old, and older, concerned that

you might not get your driver’s license

renewed, concerned that the hangovers

last longer, concerned that you might

not reach the age of 85,

concerned that the poems will stop

arriving.

concerned that you are concerned.

concerned that you might die in the

spa.

concerned that you might die on the

freeway while driving in from the

track.

concerned that you might die in your

lap pool.

concerned that the remainder of your

teeth

will not last.

concerned about dying but not about

death.

concerned that people will no longer

consider you dangerous when

drunk.

concerned that you will forget who

the enemy is.

concerned that you will forget how to

laugh.

concerned that there will be nothing to

drink in hell.

and concerned you will have to

listen to

one poetry reading

after another

after another…

the Los Angeles poets

the New York poets

the Iowa poets

the black poets

the white poets

the Chicano poets

the 3rd world poets

the female poets

the homosexual poets

the lesbian poets

the bisexual poets

the sexless poets

the failed poets

the famous poets

the dead poets

the etc. poets

concerned that the toteboard will

explode into flowers of

shit

and the night will never

come.

Charles the Lion-Hearted

he’s 95, lives in a large two story

house.

“they want to send me to a rest

home. ‘hell,’ I tell them, ‘this

IS my home!’”

he speaks of his grandchildren.

he’s outlived his

children.

he visits his wife who’s also

95.

she’s in a rest

home.

“she looks great but she doesn’t

know who I am.”

he lives on bacon, tomatoes and

breakfast cereal.

he lives on a steep hill.

used to take his little dog for

walks.

the dog died.

he walks alone now,

straight-backed,

carrying an

oak cane.

he’s 6 foot two,

lean,

jocular,

imposing.

“they can’t wait for me to

die, they want my house

and money.

I’m gonna live just to

spite them.”

I see him in his room upstairs

at night

watching tv or

reading.

he was married longer than

most men

live.

he still is

only she doesn’t know she’s

married.

he sits up in his room

on top of nine and one

half

decades

neither asking nor

giving

mercy.

he is an ocean of

wonder,

he is a shining

rock.

quick of mind,

so quick.

when death comes for

him

it should be

ashamed.

I so want to see that light burning

in that upstairs

window!

when it goes dark

it will be another world

not quite so magic

not quite so good

when it goes dark.

within the dense overcast

the Spaniards had it right and the Greeks had it

right but

my grandmother, heavy with warts, was

confused.

Galileo did more than guess and

Salisbury became what?

the brightness of doom is anybody’s

mess as

donkeys and camels are still put to

use.

Cleopatra would have loved

Canadian bacon and

nobody speaks of the

hills of Rome

anymore.

the curve ball curves

and vanilla icecream is always

overstocked.

600,000 people died in the

siege of Leningrad

and we got Shostakovich’s

Seventh.

tonight there were gunshots

outside

and I sat and rubbed my

fingers across my greasy

forehead.

palaces, palaces,

and oceans with black

filthy

claws.

the shortest distance between

2 points is

often

intolerable.

who stuck the apple into the

pig’s

mouth?

who plucked out his eyes

and baked him

like that?

Cassiodorus?

Cato?

the aviators of May

the buried dogs bones

the marshmallow kisses

the yellowed fleece of sound

the

tack

in the foot.

Virginia is slim.

Madeline is back.

Tina’s on the gin.

Becky’s on the phone.

don’t

answer.

I see you in the closet.

I see you in the dark.

I see you dead.

I see you in the back of a

pick up truck on the

Santa Monica

freeway.

the perfect place to be

in the rain

is in the rain

walking toward a

farmhouse

at one thirty

a.m.

there is a lone light

in an upper

window.

it goes out.

a dog howls.

the nature of the dream is

best interpreted by the

dreamer.

the snail crawls home.

the toes under a blanket

is one of the most magical

sights

ever.

wood is frozen

fire.

my hand is my hand.

my hand is your hand.

the blue shot of

nerve.

Turgenev

Turgenev

the cloud walks toward

me

the pigeon speaks my

name.

corsage

I suppose Jr. High was the worst.

my friend Teddy began going to

various dances

and talking about it all.

his father loaned him the car

for these

functions.

he also had a new wrist watch.

it was still the depression

era and few of us boys

had wrist

watches.

Teddy kept lifting up his wrist

and looking at his

watch.

he did it 3 or 4 times

within a ten minute

period.

“why the hell do you keep

looking at the time?

you going

somewhere?”

“maybe, maybe…”

“well, go on then…”

“she kissed me at the

doorway, I can still feel her

lips!”

“whose lips?”

“Annabell’s, she kissed me

at her door after the

dance!”

“listen, Teddy, let’s go down to the

lot and get up a

baseball game.”

“I can’t get her out of my mind.

her lips were soft,

warm…”

“Christ, man, who

cares?”

“I bought her a corsage for

the dance, she looked so

beautiful…”

“didn’t you slip her any

turkey neck?”

“what?

listen, I’m in love!”

“well, that’s what you do

then before somebody

else slams her.”

“don’t talk that way, I’m

warning you!”

“I can take you, Teddy,

with one ball tied behind

my back.”

he looked at his watch:

“I gotta go now…”

“gonna go play with yourself,

Teddy?”

“look who’s talking!

you don’t even have a

girl!”

“you don’t know what I

have.”

“you’ve got nothing but

your hand.”

“I’ve got two hands, Teddy.”

I grabbed him by the shirt and

pulled him in

close.

“and just for laughs I just might

kick your ass, real

good.”

“you’re just pissed because

you’ve got

nobody!”

I let him go.

“get out of here…”

Teddy turned and

walked off.

he’d gotten off easy that

time.

next time I’d kick his ass

from stem to

stern.

it was 1935.

I was standing in my parents’

back yard.

it was a Saturday

afternoon.

my father was in the house

listening to the radio,

the Trojans were playing

Notre Dame.

my mother was in there

doing something and

nothing.

I walked in through the back

door.

my mother was in the

kitchen.

“Henry, I saw Teddy

leaving.

he’s a nice

boy.”

“yeah…”

“I saw Teddy

all dressed up to go to

the dance.

he looked so

nice!”

“yeah…”

“Henry, when are you going

to get a nice girl to take to

a dance?”

“I only dance with them in

bed!”

“YOU DON’T TALK THAT WAY

TO YOUR MOTHER!”

it was my father.

he had been standing there.

it must have been half

time.

“don’t bother me,” I

said.

“I’LL BOTHER YOU, I’LL BOTHER

YOU SO YOU’LL NEVER TALK THAT

WAY AGAIN!”

“is that right, old man?

come on then, bother

me!”

he stood there.

I stood there.

nothing happened.

“ALL RIGHT,” he screamed,

“GO TO YOUR ROOM!

NOW!”

I walked past him, on through

the house and out the

door.

I walked down the street.

I had no money, I had nowhere to

go.

I just kept

walking.

it was a hot summer day

and I just kept walking,

3 blocks, 4 blocks, 5

blocks…

then I passed a mongrel dog

going the other

way.

his fur was matted and dirty

and his tongue hung out of

one side of his

mouth.

I stopped, turned and watched

him trot

off.

then I faced the other way and

continued my

journey.

classical music and me

I have no idea how it began.

as a boy I believed that classical music was

for sissies and as a teenager I felt this even

more strongly.

yes, I think it began in this record

store.

I was in my booth listening to whatever I

listened to

at that time.

then I heard some music in the next

booth.

the sounds seemed very strange and

unusual.

I saw the man leave his booth and

return the record to the clerk.

I went to the clerk and asked for that

record.

she handed it to me.

I looked at the cover.

“but,” I said, “this is symphony

music.”

“yes,” said the clerk.

I took the record to my booth

and played it.

never had I heard such

music.

unfortunately, I no longer

remember what that

piece of marvelous

music was.

I purchased the record.

I had a record player in my

room.

I listened to the record

over and over

again.

I was hooked.

soon I found a 2nd hand

record store.

there I found that you could

turn in 3 record albums and

get two back.

I was fairly poor

but most of my money went

for wine and

classical music.

I loved to mix the two

together.

I went through that entire

2nd hand record

store.

my tastes were strange.

I liked Beethoven but

preferred Brahms and

Tchaikovsky.

Borodin didn’t work.

Chopin was only good

at moments.

Mozart was only good

when I was feeling

good and I seldom

felt that

way.

Smetana I found

obvious and Sibelius

awesome.

Ives was too self-comfortable.

Goldmark, I felt, was very

underrated.

Wagner was a roaring miracle

of dark energy.

Haydn was love turned loose

into sound.

Handel created things that

took your head and lifted it

to the ceiling.

Eric Coates was unbelievably

cute and astute.

and if you listened to Bach

long enough

you didn’t want to listen to

anybody else.

there were dozens

more….

I was on the move from

city to city

and carrying a record player

and records along was

impossible

so I began listening to the

radio

and picking up what I

could.

the problem with the radio

was

that there were a few standard

works they played over and

over.

I heard them too often

and could anticipate each note

before it

arrived.

but the good part was

that, at times, I heard new

music that I had never heard

before by composers I had

never heard of, read about.

I was surprised at the many

composers, fairly unknown,

at least to me, who could

produce these wondrous

and stirring

works.

works that I would never

hear again.

I have continued to listen to

classical music via the radio

for decades.

I am listening as I write

this to Mahler’s 9th.

Mahler was always one

of my favorites.

it’s possible to listen to

his works again and

again without

tiring of

them.

through the women, through

the jobs, through the horrible

times and the good times,

through deaths, through everything,

in and out of hospitals,

in and out of love, through the

decades that have gone so

swiftly

there have been so many

nights of listening

to classical music on the

radio.

almost every

night.

I wish I could remember the name of

the piece I first heard in that

record booth

but it evades me.

for some odd reason I do

remember the conductor:

Eugene Ormandy.

one of the

finest.

now Mahler is in the room

with me

and the chills run up my

arms, reach the back

of my neck…

it’s all so unbelievably

splendid,

splendid!

and I can’t read a note of

music.

But I have found a part of

the world

like no other part of the

world.

it gave heart to my

life, helped me get

to

here.

transport

I was a scraggly bum most of my

life

and to get from one city to another

I took the buses.

I don’t know how many times I

saw the Grand Canyon,

going east to west

and west to east.

it was just dusty windows,

the backs of necks, stop-offs at

intolerable eating places

and always the old

constipation

blues.

and once, a half-assed romance

with no socially redeeming

value.

then I found myself riding the

trains.

the food was beautiful

and the restrooms were

lovely

and I stayed in the bar

cars.

some of them were

so grand:

round curving picture

windows

and large overhead

domes,

the sun shone right on

down through your

glass

and at night you could

get

stinko

and watch the stars and

the moon ride

right along with

you.

and the best, since there was more

space

people weren’t forced

to speak to

you.

then after the trains I found

myself on the

jetliners,

quick trips to cities and

back.

I was like many of the

others:

I had a briefcase

and was writing on pieces

of paper.

I was on the hustle.

and I hustled and hounded the

stewardesses for drink after

drink.

the food and the view were

bad.

and the people tended to

talk to you

but there were ways to

discourage

that.

the worst about flying was that

there were people waiting for

you at the airports.

baggage was no problem:

you had your carry-on bag,

change of underwear, socks,

one shirt, toothbrush, razor,

liquor.

then the jetliners stopped.

you stayed in the city,

you shacked with unsavory

ladies and you purchased a

series of old cars.

you were much luckier with the

cars than with the

ladies.

you bought the cars for a

song

and drove them with a classic

abandon.

they never needed an oil

change and they lasted and

lasted.

on one the springs were

broken.

on another they stuck up

out of the seat and into your

ass.

one had no reverse

gear.

this was good for me,

it was like playing a game of

chess—

keeping your King from getting

checkmated.

another would only start

when parked on a

hill.

there was one where the

lights wouldn’t go on until you

hit a bump

HARD.

of course, they all died

finally.

and it was always a true

heartbreaker for me when

I had to watch them towed off

to the junkyard.

another I lost when it was impounded

on a drunk driving

rap.

they sent me an impound bill that was

four times larger than the purchase

price

so I let them keep

it.

the best car I ever had was the one

my first wife gave me when divorcing

me.

it was two years old,

as old as our marriage.

but the last car was (and is)

the very best, purchased new for

$30,000 cash. (well, I wrote

them a check).

it has everything: air bag,

anti-lock brakes, everything.

also, 2 or 3 times a year

people send a limousine

so we can attend various

functions.

these are very nice

because you can drink like

hell and not worry about the

drunk tank.

but I’m going to bypass that

private plane, that private

boat.

upkeep and rental space

can be a real pain in the

butt.

I’ll tell you one thing, though,

one night not so long

ago

I had a dream that I

could fly.

I mean, just by working

my arms and my legs

I could fly through the

air

and I did.

there were all these people

on the ground,

they were reaching up their

arms and trying to pull me

down

but

they couldn’t do

it.

I felt like pissing on

them.

they were so

jealous.

all they had to do was

to work their way

slowly up to it

as I had

done.

such people think

success grows on

trees.

you and I,

we know

better.

betrayed

the big thrill

was being quite young and

reading Of Time and the

River

by Thomas Wolfe.

what a fat and wondrous

book!

I read it again and

again.

then a couple of decades

went by

and I read the book

again.

I disliked the poetic prose

right off.

I put the book down and

looked about the

room.

I felt cheated.

the thrill was gone.

I decided to leave town.

I was in Los Angeles.

two days later I was sitting on a

Greyhound bus

going to Miami.

and I had a pint of whiskey

in one pocket

and a paperback copy of

Fathers and Sons

in the

other.

torched-out

the worst was closing the bars at

2 a.m.

with my lady.

going home to get a couple hours

sleep,

then as a substitute postal carrier

to be on call at

5:30 a.m.

sitting there with the other

subs

along the little ledge

outside the magazine

cases.

too often given a route to

case and carry,

starting 15 or 20 minutes

late,

the sweat pouring down

your face,

gathering under the

armpits.

you’re dizzy, sick,

trying to get the case

up, pull it down and

sack it for the truck to

pick up.

you worked on sheer

nerve,

reaching down into the

gut,

flailing, fighting

as the last minutes,

the last

seconds

rushed toward

you.

then to get on the

route with the people

and the dogs,

to make the rounds

on a new

route,

making your legs

go,

making your feet

walk

as the sun baked

you alive,

you fought through

your first

round

with 6 or 7 more to

go.

never time for lunch,

you’d get a write-up

if you were 5 minutes

late.

a few too many writeups

and you were

finished,

they moved you

out.

it was a living, a

deathly

living, to somehow

finish your route,

come in and often

be told

you were assigned

to the night pickup

run, another

ball-buster.

or

if you got out of that

to drive on in

to your place

to find your lady

already drunk,

dirty dishes in the

sink,

the dog unfed,

the flowers unwatered,

the bed

unmade,

the ashtrays full of

punched-out

lipstick-smeared

cigarettes.

then to get in the tub

with a beer.

you were no longer

young,

you were no longer

anything,

just worn down and

out

with your lady in the

other room

lisping inanities and

insanities,

pouring her glasses

of cheap

wine.

you were always going

to get rid of her,

you were working on

that,

you were caught between

the post office and

her,

it was the vise of

death,

each side crushing in

upon you.

“Jesus, baby, please,

please, just shut up for

a little while…”

“ah, you asshole!

what’re you doing in

there, playing with

yourself?”

to come roaring out

of that tub, all the impossibilities

of that day and that life

corkscrewing through you

ripping away

everything.

out of that tub,

a naked, roaring rocket

of battered body and

mind:

“YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE,

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT

ANYTHING?

SITTING THERE ON YOUR

DEAD ASS AND

SUCKING AT THE VINO!”

to rush into the other room,

looking all about,

the walls whirling,

the entire world tilting in

against you.

“DON’T HIT ME! DON’T HIT

ME!

YOU’D HIT ME BUT YOU

WOULDN’T HIT A

MAN!”

“HELL NO, I WOULDN’T

HIT A MAN, YOU THINK

I’M CRAZY?”

to grab the bottle from

her,

to drain damn near

half of it.

to find another bottle,

open it,

pour a tall waterglass

full,

then to smash the glass

against a

wall,

to explode it like

that

in purple glory.

to find a new glass,

sit down and pour a

full one.

she’d be quiet

then.

we’d drink an

hour or so

like that.

then, to get

dressed,

cigarette dangling,

you are feeling somewhat

better.

then you are moving

toward the

door.

“hey! where the hell

you going?”

“I’m going to the fucking

bar!”

“not without me!

not without me, buster!”

“all right, get your ass

into gear!”

to walk there together.

to get our stools.

to sit before the long mirror.

the mirror you always hated to

look into.

to tell the bartender,

“vodka 7.”

to have her tell the bartender,

“scotch and water.”

everything was far away

then,

the post office, the world,

the past and the

future.

to have our drinks arrive.

to take the first hit in the

dark bar.

life couldn’t get any

better.

the word

there was Auden, I don’t remember

which small room I first read him

in

and there was Spender and I don’t

know which small room

either

and then there was Ezra

and I remember that room,

there was a torn screen

that the flies came through

and it was Los Angeles

and the woman said to me,

“Jesus Christ, you reading those

Cantos again!”

she liked e. e. cummings, though,

she thought he was really

good and she was

right.

I remember when I read Turgenev,

though, I had just come out of the

drunk tank and I was living

alone

and I thought he was really a

subtle and funny son of a

bitch.

Hemingway I read everywhere,

sometimes a few times over

and he made me feel brave

and tough

until one day

it all just stopped cold for me

and worse than that,

Ernie became an

irritant.

my Jeffers period was sometime

in Los Angeles, some room, some

job,

the same woman was back

and she said,

“Jesus, how can you read this

crap?”

one time when she was gone

I found many magazines

under the bed.

I pulled them out

and found that the contents were

all about murder

and it was all about women

who were tortured, killed,

dismembered and so

forth with the

lurid photos

in black and

white.

that stuff wasn’t for

me.

my first encounter with Henry

Miller was via paperback

on a bus through Arizona.

he was great when he stuck

to reality

but when he got ethereal

when he got to philosophizing

he got as dry and boring as

the passing

landscape.

I left him in the men’s crapper

at a hamburger

stop.

I got hold of Celine’s Journey

and read it straight through

while in bed eating crackers.

I kept reading, eating the

crackers and reading, reading,

laughing out loud,

thinking, at last I’ve met a man

who writes better than

I.

I finished the book and then

drank much water.

the crackers swelled up

inside of me

and I got the worst

god damned stomach

ache of my

life.

I was living with my first

wife.

she worked for the L.A.

Sheriff’s Dept.

and she came in to

find me doubled up

and moaning.

“Oh, what happened?”

“I’ve just read the world’s

greatest

writer!”

“But you said you were.”

“I’m second, baby…”

I read F. D.’s Notes from the

Underground

in a small El Paso

library

after sleeping the night

on a park bench

during a sand

storm.

after reading that book

I knew I had a long way

to go as a

writer.

I don’t know where I read

T. S. Eliot.

he made a small dent

which soon ironed

out.

there were many rooms,

many books,

D. H. Lawrence, Gorky,

A. Huxley, Sherwood

Anderson, Sinclair Lewis,

James Thurber, Dos Passos,

etc

Kafka.

Schopenhauer, Nietzsche,

Rabelais.

Hamsun.

as a very young man

I worked as a shipping clerk,

made the bars at

night,

came into the roominghouse,

went to bed

and read the

books.

I had 3 or 4 of them in

bed with me (what a

man!) and then I would

sleep.

my landlady finally told

me, “You know, you read those

books in bed and about every

hour or so one of them will

fall to the floor.

You are keeping everybody

awake!”

(I was on the 3rd floor.)

what days and nights those

were.

now I can’t read anything,

not even the newspaper.

and, of course, I can’t watch

tv except for the boxing

matches.

I do hear some news

on the car radio

while driving the freeway

and waiting for the

traffic

reports.

but you know, my former

life as a bibliophile, it

possibly kept me from

murdering somebody,

myself

included.

it kept me from being an

industrialist.

it allowed me to endure

some women

that most men would never

be able to live

with.

it gave me space, a

pause.

it helped me to write

this

(in this room,

like the other rooms)

perhaps for some young man

now

needing

to laugh at the

impossibilities

which are here

always

after we are

not.

shooting the moon in the eye

it was just a small room, no bathroom,

hot plate, bed, 2 chairs, a bed, sink,

phone in hall.

I was on the 2nd floor of a hotel.

I had a job.

I got in about 6:30 p.m.

and by 8 p.m.

there would be 4 or 5 people

in the room,

all drunks,

all drinking wine.

sometimes there would be

6 or 7.

most of them sat on the

bed.

oh, there was a radio,

we played the radio,

drank and

talked.

it was strange, there was

always a sense of

excitement there,

some laughter and

sometimes serious

arguments that were

somewhat

stupid.

we were never asked

to be quiet,

the manager never

bothered us,

or the

police.

with an exception

or two,

there were no

physical

confrontations.

I’d always call an

end to the parties

around 3 a.m.

“ah, come on Hank!

we’re just getting

started!”

“come on, come

on, everybody

out!”

and,

with an exception

or two,

I always slept

without a

lady.

we called

that place,

the Hotel from

Hell.

I had no idea

what we were

trying to

do.

I think we were

just celebrating

being

alive.

that small room

full of smoke and

music and

voices,

night after night

after

night.

the poor, the mad,

the lost.

we lit up that hotel

with our twisted

souls

and it loved

us.

nirvana

not much chance,

completely cut loose from

purpose,

he was a young man

riding a bus

through North Carolina

on the way to

somewhere

and it began to snow

and the bus stopped

at a little cafe

in the hills

and the passengers

entered.

he sat at the counter

with the others,

he ordered and the

food arrived.

the meal was

particularly

good

and the

coffee.

the waitress was

unlike the women

he had

known.

she was unaffected,

there was a natural

humor which came

from her.

the fry cook said

crazy things.

the dishwasher,

in back,

laughed, a good

clean

pleasant

laugh.

the young man watched

the snow through the

windows.

he wanted to stay

in that cafe

forever.

the curious feeling

swam through him

that everything

was

beautiful

there,

that it would always

stay beautiful

there.

then the bus driver

told the passengers

that it was time

to board.

the young man

thought, I’ll just sit

here, I’ll just stay

here.

but then

he rose and followed

the others into the

bus.

he found his seat

and looked at the cafe

through the bus

window.

then the bus moved

off, down a curve,

downward, out of

the hills.

the young man

looked straight

forward.

he heard the other

passengers

speaking

of other things,

or they were

reading

or

attempting to

sleep.

they had not

noticed

the

magic.

the young man

put his head to

one side,

closed his

eyes,

pretended to

sleep.

there was nothing

else to do—

just listen to the

sound of the

engine,

the sound of the

tires

in the

snow.

an invitation

hey Chinaski:

I am a filmmaker in the Hollywood area and

I am currently making a movie in which I

would like to include you.

The nature of the movie is about an

alcoholic Satan who decides to leave hell

for a while and have a vacation in

Hollywood.

This particular version of Satan is a fun

guy who can’t get enough booze, SLUTS,

or adventure.

Satan, while in Hollywood looks up his

old buddies (Ghosts) Richard Burton,

Errol Flynn and Idi Amin (still alive).

He proceeds to get smashed with these

guys and they all pass out on him so

he needs to look up a mortal worthy of

drinking with him (YOU).

The scene I have envisioned with you

would be to be sitting around a crummy

joint, drinking Mezcal and playing Russian

Roulette with Satan while 2 big fat chicks

are slapping each other with Salamis.

I would want everybody in the scene to be

SMASHED.

I can tell you now that I couldn’t pay you

anything up front xcept Booze and

adventure.

—However—

I am going to hopefully be able to release

this movie one day and would be happy to

work out a contractual agreement that

would arrange a royalty rate—(if you are

interested.)

And thanks for mentioning in your

writing, KNUT HAMSUN.

he has turned out to be one of my

faves.

And just remember,

WHEN IN DOUBT,

PASS OUT!

batting order:

Hemingway’s been in a slump,

can’t hit a curve ball

anymore,

I’m dropping him to the 6th

spot.

I’m putting Celine in

cleanup,

he’s inconsistent but when

he’s good there’s no

better.

Hamsun I’m going to use

in the number 3 spot,

he hits them hard and

often.

lead-off, well, lead-off

I’ll use e. e. cummings,

he’s fast, can beat out a

bunt.

I’ll use Pound in the

number two spot, Ezra

is one of the better

hit and run men

in the business.

the 5 spot I’ll give to

Dostoevsky,

he’s a heavy hitter, great with

men on base.

the 7 spot I’ll give to Robinson

Jeffers, can you think of anybody

better?

he can drill a rock

350 feet.

the 8 spot, I’ve got my

catcher, J. D. Salinger,

if we can find

him.

and pitching?

how about Nietzsche?

he’s strong!

been breaking all the tables

in the training

room.

coaches?

I’ll take Kierkegaard and

Sartre,

gloomy fellows,

but none know this

game better.

when we field this team,

it’s all over,

gentlemen.

we’re going to kick some

ass, most likely

yours.

the open canvas

listening to organ music on the radio

tonight,

the door to the small balcony is

open,

it is 11:07 p.m., cold, a night of

silence except for the

radio, the

organ music,

and I get this vision

of a thin, tall man at the keyboard,

he is more than pale, almost

a chalky

white.

the music boils in the

gloom.

the walls about him are

unpainted, cold,

austerely

indifferent.

a full glass of wine sits

untouched

on a rough hand-made table

to his

right.

the music seeps through his

bones,

centuries bend and

unwind as the invisible dog

of darkness

walks by

in a half circle

behind him,

then blends into

neurons.

the man continues to

play.

the world turns upsidedown

with a fixed gentleness

but the walls, the man,

the sounds continue

as before.

then the world returns to its

natural course.

one tonality breeds

another.

the sounds of black strings

of beads.

the sound is one

yet not one.

then the music

stops.

the man sits.

he is thoughtless.

the keys of the organ assume

an immensity.

the walls about him move away

faster than the eye

can note,

then they

return.

the man coughs, looks to

his left,

looks down,

touches the keys and

is taken

again.

in the shadow of the rose

branching out, grubbing down,

taking stairways down to hell,

reestablishing the vanishing

point, trying a different

bat, a different stance, altering

diet and manner of

walking, readjusting the

system, photographing your

dinosaur dream,

driving your machine with

more grace and care,

noticing the flowers talking

to you,

realizing the gigantic agony

of the terrapin,

you pray for rain like an

Indian,

slide a fresh clip into the

automatic,

turn out the lights and

wait.

About the Author

CHARLES BUKOWSKI is one of America’s best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose, and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in Andernach, Germany, to an American soldier father and a German mother in 1920, and brought to the United States at the age of three. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for fifty years. He published his first story in 1944 when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp (1994).

During his lifetime he published more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including the novels Post Office (1971), Factotum (1975), Women (1978), Ham on Rye (1982), and Hollywood (1989). Among his most recent books are the posthumous editions of What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (1999), Open All Night: New Poems (2000), Beerspit Night and Cursing: The Correspondence of Charles Bukowski and Sheri Martinelli, 1960-1967 (2001), and The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps: New Poems (2001).

All of his books have now been published in translation in over a dozen languages and his worldwide popularity remains undiminished. In the years to come, Ecco will publish additional volumes of previously uncollected poetry and letters.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

The Days Run Away Like wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)

Post Office (1971)

Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (1972)

South of No North (1973)

Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973 (1974)

Factotum (1975)

Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems 1974-1977 (1977)

Women (1978)

Play the Piano Drunk /Like a Percussion Instrument/Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit (1979)

Shakespeare Never Did This (1979)

Dangling in the Tournefortia (1981)

Ham on Rye (1982)

Bring Me Your Love (1983)

Hot Water Music (1983)

There’s No Business (1984)

War All the Time: Poems 1981-1984 (1984)

You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)

The Movie: “Barfly” (1987)

The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems 1946-1966 (1988)

Hollywood (1989)

Septuagenarian Stew: Stories & Poems (1990)

The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992)

Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970 (1993)

Pulp (1994)

Living on Luck: Selected Letters 1960s-1970s (Volume 2) (1995)

Betting on the Muse: Poems & Stories (1996)

Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems (1997)

The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship (1998)

Reach for the Sun: Selected Letters 1978-1994 (Volume 3) (1999)

What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire: New Poems (1999)

Open All Night: New Poems (2000)

The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps: New Poems (2001)

Beerspit Night and Cursing: The Correspondence of Charles Bukowski & Sheri Martinelli 1960-1967 (2001)

Copyright

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS. Copyright © 1992 by Charles Bukowski. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Mobipocket Reader July 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-146971-8

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