Love is a Dog from Hell (10 page)

 

in the hospitals and jails

it’s the worst

in madhouses

it’s the worst

in penthouses

it’s the worst

in skid row flophouses

it’s the worst

at poetry readings

at rock concerts

at benefits for the disabled

it’s the worst

at funerals

at weddings

it’s the worst

at parades

at skating rinks

at sexual orgies

it’s the worst

at midnight

at 3 a.m.

at 5:45 p.m.

it’s the worst

 

falling through the sky

firing squads

that’s the best

 

thinking of India

looking at popcorn stands

watching the bull get the matador

that’s the best

 

boxed lightbulbs

an old dog scratching

peanuts in a celluloid bag

that’s the best

 

spraying roaches

a clean pair of stockings

natural guts defeating natural talent

that’s the best

 

in front of firing squads

throwing crusts to seagulls

slicing tomatoes

that’s the best

 

rugs with cigarette burns

cracks in sidewalks

waitresses still sane

that’s the best

 

my hands dead

my heart dead

silence

adagio of rocks

the world ablaze

that’s the best

for me.

 

cigarettes wetted with beer from

the night before

you light one

gag

open the door for air

and on your doorstep

is a dead sparrow

his head and breast

chewed away.

 

hanging from the doorknob

is an ad from the All American

Burger

consisting of several coupons

which

say

that with the purchase

of a burger

from Feb. 12 thru Feb. 15

you can get a free

regular size bag of french

fries and one

10 oz. cup of coca cola.

 

I take the ad

wrap the sparrow

carry him to the trash bin

and dump him

in.

 

look:

forsaking fries and coke

to help keep

my city

clean.

 

what’s bad about all

this

is watching people

drinking coffee and

waiting. I would

douse them all

with luck. they need

it. they need it

worse than I do.

 

I sit in cafes

and watch them

waiting. I suppose

there’s not much

else to do. the

flies walk up and

down the windows

and we drink our

coffee and pretend

not to look at

each other. I

wait with them.

between the movement

of the flies

people walk by.

 

a single dog

walking alone on a hot sidewalk of

summer

appears to have the power

of ten thousand gods.

 

why is this?

 

sick with the flu

drinking beer

my radio on loud

enough to overcome

the sounds of the

stereo people who

have just moved

into the court

across the way.

asleep or awake

they play their

set at top volume

leaving their

doors and windows

open.

 

they are each

18, married, wear

red shoes,

are blonde,

slim.

they play

everything: jazz,

classical, rock,

country, modern

as long as it is

loud.

 

this is the problem

of being poor:

we must share each

other’s sounds.

last week it was

my turn:

there were two women

in here

fighting each other

and then they

ran up the walk

screaming.

the police came.

 

now it’s their

turn.

now I am walking

up and down in

my dirty shorts,

two rubber earplugs

stuck deep into

my ears.

 

I even consider

murder.

such rude little

rabbits!

walking little pieces

of snot!

 

but in our land

and in our way

there has never

been a chance;

it’s only when

things are not

going too badly

for a while

that we forget.

 

someday they’ll

each be dead

someday they’ll

each have a

separate coffin

and it will be

quiet.

but right now

it’s Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan Bob

Dylan all the

way.

 

once

starving in Philadelphia

I had a small room

it was evening going into night

and I stood at my window on the 3rd floor

in the dark and looked down into a

kitchen across the way on the 2nd floor

and I saw a beautiful blonde girl

embrace a young man there and kiss him

with what seemed hunger

and I stood and watched until they broke

away.

then I turned and switched on the room light.

I saw my dresser and my dresser drawers

and my alarm clock on the dresser.

I took my alarm clock

to bed with me and

fucked it until the hands dropped off.

then I went out and walked the streets

until my feet blistered.

when I got back I walked to the window

and looked down and across the way

and the light in their kitchen was

out.

 

I think of automobiles parked in a

parking lot

 

when I think of myself dead

I think of frying pans

 

when I think of myself dead

I think of somebody making love to you

when I’m not around

 

when I think of myself dead

I have trouble breathing

 

when I think of myself dead

I think of all the people waiting to die

 

when I think of myself dead

I think I won’t be able to drink water anymore

 

when I think of myself dead

the air goes all white

 

the roaches in my kitchen

tremble

 

and somebody will have to throw

my clean and dirty underwear

away.

 

Christmas eve, alone,

in a motel room

down the coast

near the Pacific—

hear it?

 

they’ve tried to do this place up

Spanish, there’s

tapestry and lamps, and

the toilet’s clean, there are

tiny bars of pink

soap.

 

they won’t find us

here:

the barracudas or the ladies or

the idol

worshippers.

 

back in town

they’re drunk and panicked

running red lights

breaking their heads open

in honor of Christ’s

birthday. that’s nice.

 

soon I’ll finish this 5th of

Puerto Rican rum.

in the morning I’ll vomit and

shower, drive back

in, have a sandwich by 1 p.m.,

be back in my room by

2,

stretched on the bed,

waiting for the phone to ring,

not answering,

my holiday is an

evasion, my reasoning

is not.

 

terror finally becomes almost

bearable

but never quite

 

terror creeps like a cat

crawls like a cat

across my mind

 

I can hear the laughter of the masses

 

they are strong

they will survive

 

like the roach

 

never take your eyes off the roach

 

you’ll never see it again.

 

the masses are everywhere

they know how to do things:

they have sane and deadly angers

for sane and deadly

things.

 

I wish I were driving a blue 1952 Buick

or a dark blue 1942 Buick

or a blue 1932 Buick

over a cliff of hell and into the

sea.

 

think of the beds

used again and again

to fuck in

to die in.

 

in this land

some of us fuck more than

we die

but most of us die

better than we

fuck,

and we die

piece by piece too—

in parks

eating ice cream, or

in igloos

of dementia,

or on straw mats

or upon disembarked

loves

or

or.

 

:beds beds beds

:toilets toilets toilets

 

the human sewage system

is the world’s greatest

invention.

 

and you invented me

and I invented you

and that’s why we don’t

get along

on this bed

any longer.

you were the world’s

greatest invention

until you

flushed me

away.

 

now it’s your turn

to wait for the touch

of the handle.

somebody will do it

to you,

bitch,

and if they don’t

you will—

mixed with your own

green or yellow or white

or blue

or lavender

goodbye.