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 de
ath
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