New Poems Book Three (8 page)

things have never been

good

and they don’t intend to

get better,

and the curious thing

is

that the same horrors that

plagued you in childhood

continue

in different ways,

with different faces

that speak

with the same

voice, the same

complaints, the same

hatreds,

the same cruel

demands:

how easily these faces

grow angry

over the slightest

triviality

and how

joyless, how

consistently, grimly,

joyless these faces

are, it’s as if your father

or some implacable enemy

had come back now

with another

face, now more

vengeful

than ever.

must we go to the grave

having been

forever followed

by vengeful

faces?

small

unnerving occurrences

keep

coming up

one

after the other:

haphazard

dumb

accidents of

freakish

chance—

the tiring tasks

that are part

of our routine

and the

sundry other

ever-recurring

annoyances—

all these

inevitable

small defeats

and sorrows

rub and push

continually

up against

the

moments

the days

the years

until

one almost

wishes

almost

begs for

a larger

more meaningful

destiny.

I can

almost understand

why

people

leap

from

bridges.

I even

understand

in part those

people who

arm themselves

and

slaughter their

friends and innocent

strangers.

I am

not exactly

in sympathy

with them

and I decry

their reckless behavior

but I can

understand

the

ultimate

undeniable

persistent

force of

their

misery.

the horrific violent

failure

of any one

of us

to live properly

says to me that

we are all equally

guilty

for every human

crime.

there are

no

innocents.

and if there is

no

hell,

those who coldly

judge these

unfortunates

will

create

one for us

all.

I’m stale sitting here

at this typewriter, the door open on my

little balcony when suddenly there is a roar in the sky,

Bruckner shouts back from

the radio and then the rain comes down glorious and violent,

and I realize that

it’s good that the world can explode this way

because now

I am renewed, listening and watching as

droplets of rain splash on my wristwatch.

the torrent of rain clears my brain and my

spirit

as

a long line of blue lightning splits

the night sky.

I smile inside, remembering that

someone once said, “I’d rather be lucky than good,” and I quickly

think, “I’d rather be lucky
and
good”

as tonight

as Bruckner sets the tone

as the hard rain continues to fall

as another blue streak of lightning

explodes in the sky

I’m grateful that for the moment I’m

both.

frenzy in the marketplace.

cities burn.

the world shakes and calls for

democracy.

democracy doesn’t work.

Christianity doesn’t work.

nor Atheism.

nothing works but the gun

and the man on

top.

the centuries change and

Man remains the

same.

love buckles and dissolves:

hatred is the only

reality

on continents and in

rooms of two

people.

nothing works but the gun

and the man on

top.

all else is

meaningless.

frenzy in the marketplace.

cities burn

to be rebuilt to

burn again.

democracy doesn’t work.

Christianity doesn’t work.

nor Atheism.

it’s just the gun,

the gun and the man on

top.

not a chance.

nothing.

put your shoes on,

take them off.

ride a bicycle through a park in Paris.

read the great works of our time.

nothing.

watch the trapeze artist fall to his death.

no chance.

blink your eyes, scratch your nose.

nothing.

sit in the dentist’s chair and stare into the face of God.

nothing.

watch the 6 horse break from the gate like a cannonball.

no chance,

the 8 horse has its number.

no chance in Vegas.

no chance in Monte Carlo.

no chance here in Southern California.

no hope at the North Pole.

put your shoes on,

take them off.

nothing.

the windows shine in the black morning

a Chinese Jew shivers in the frost.

I bury my father in a green cloak.

no chance.

I can’t endure the odds but I must.

it’s inbred,

I’m stuck.

there are my shoes under the bed.

look at them.

cold, dead with laces.

no chance.

the sadness roars, leaps at the walls.

one of my cats stares at something unseen.

I smile, nod.

nothing.

nothing new.

I rip the cellophane off my cigar.

nothing happens.

all of civilization collapses like a mighty wave.

a moth tentatively enters the room.

the music stops.

yes, it’s true—I’m mellowing.

in the old days

to cross my room you’d have to

step around and between

discarded trash and empty

bottles but

now the trash is

packed neatly into

sturdy garbage cans;

also I’m a good citizen, I save

my bottles for the city of Los

Angeles to

recycle

and I haven’t been in a drunk

tank for a good ten

years.

boring, isn’t it?

but not for me as I now

stay in at night,

listen to

Mahler and watch the walls

dance;

as a newly mellow recluse that’s good enough

for me.

so I’m turning the streets back over

to you,

tough guy.

whenever I see a photo of myself

I think,

Jesus Christ, look at that ugly

bloated

whale of a fish!

no wonder I had such a problem

getting them

from the couch to the

bedroom

and had to get

myself

drunk

before attempting

it.

there’s no other way:

8 or ten poems a

night.

in the sink

behind me are dishes

that haven’t been

washed in 2

weeks.

the sheets need

changing

and the bed is

unmade.

half the lights are

burned-out here.

it gets darker

and darker

(I have replacement

bulbs but can’t get them

out of their cardboard

wrapper.) Despite my

dirty shorts in the

bathtub

and the rest of my dirty

laundry on the

bedroom floor,

they haven’t

come for me yet

with their badges and

their rules and their

numb ears. oh, them

and their caprice!

like the fox

I run with the hunted and

if I’m not the happiest

man on earth I’m surely the

luckiest man

alive.

tonight,

in this very dark

night,

looking out the window

at the lights in the

harbor,

there’s very little to

think about or

do.

I smile, looking at

my hands—

I always had small

hands.

now

day by day

they seem to be

growing

larger.

is it some type of terrible

disease?

alone in the room

I laugh

loudly

at the thought of

my hands

growing so

LARGE

that they can’t

fit all of me

into my

casket.

what a delightful frightening

thought!

“what’s wrong with this

son of a bitch? his

hands are the size of

his body!”

then

I forget all that and

look out at the lights

again.

20 years ago when

I was a starving writer

a lady in a gold Cadillac

pulled up outside my humble place

got out and

knocked on the door.

she was well dressed,

smiling,

really beautiful.

she sat on my couch

and I poured her a drink

as she said,

“I am the Queen of

Rats in a woman’s

body.”

“you look great,”

I said

“I have come to invite you to live

with us

in Rat Kingdom.

the world is going to end

with a bang

soon and all that will be left

will be Rats and a few

roaches.

we admire you and I have come

to invite you to join us

before it’s too late.”

“come on,” I said, “let’s go

into the bedroom and talk it

over.”

“you’re being frivolous,” she

said. “I’m asking you seriously if you will

join our Kingdom of

Rats.

will you?”

“have another drink,” I

replied, “and I’ll think it

over.”

she got up then, walked to the

door, opened it, walked out.

I stood at the window,

watched her get into her

gold Cadillac and drive

off.

20 years ago

I thought it was someone’s

idea of a feeble

joke.

now, I am no longer so

sure.

sometimes I think I should have

left with her.

other times

I am sure that I

did.

what I need, what I really need is

a blue dog with green eyes or

a fish that smiles like the Mona Lisa.

what I need, what I really need is

to never ever hear the Blue Danube Waltz

again

or to have to watch a baseball game on tv

like a slow chess match moving toward death.

what I need, what I really need is

to dream the decent dream

and I don’t mean the church or god

I mean just looking up some day

and seeing one human face midst

the billions of strangled dying sun

flowers.

what I really need, what I really need is

to laugh the way I used to laugh

because in this cage

there is nothing to do

nowhere to go.

what I need, what I really need is

to confront the walls

and to get ready for that motherfucker

Death

almost with a sense of

glee.

why?: because I would be

getting away from

you.

who?

you: rat with eyes like a

woman.

now continues

the slow retreat, still tabulating the wounds, the

escapes, the mutilated years.

there was always something in the way, something wrong,

there was never

enough.

now continues

the slow retreat,

packing age as an extra, no peace, even now.

you pluck a hair and find it to be white as

snow.

the slow retreat, no trumpets here, backing into it,

you can only wonder, did you put up a good fight?

or was it all just

a stupid joke?

we can only hope not.

now continues

the slow retreat, backing into it, going back until

finally

you reach the beginning

and can no longer be

found.

it’s over for me, he said, I’ve lost it.

maybe you never had it, I said.

oh, I had it, he said.

how did you know you had it?

one knows, he said, that’s all.

well I never had it, I told him.

that’s too fucking bad, he said.

what is? I asked.

too fucking bad you never had

it, he answered.

I don’t feel bad that I never had

it, I said.

I understand, he said, now go

away and leave me alone.

suit yourself, I said, and slid one

barstool down.

he just sat there staring into his

drink.

I don’t know what he had lost but if

I never had it and he had lost it,

then it seemed we were in the same

boat.

I decided

some people make too damned

much of everything and

I finished my drink and walked

out of there.