The Last Night of the Earth Poems

“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 ch
eated.

  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