The Last Night of the Earth Poems

  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 com
e

  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.