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
sandwic
h 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