Love is a Dog from Hell (13 page)

 

too much

too little

 

too fat

too thin

or nobody.

 

laughter or

tears

 

haters

lovers

 

strangers with faces like

the backs of

thumb tacks

armies running through

streets of blood

waving winebottles

bayoneting and fucking

virgins.

 

or an old guy in a cheap room

with a photograph of M. Monroe.

 

there is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock.

 

people so tired

mutilated

either by love or no love.

 

people just are not good to each other

one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich

the poor are not good to the poor.

 

we are afraid.

 

our educational system tells us

that we can all be

big-ass winners.

 

it hasn’t told us

about the gutters

or the suicides.

 

or the terror of one person

aching in one place

alone

 

untouched

unspoken to

 

watering a plant.

 

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

people are not good to each other.

 

I suppose they never will be.

I don’t ask them to be.

 

but sometimes I think about

it.

 

the beads will swing

the clouds will cloud

and the killer will behead the child

like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

 

too much

too little

too fat

too thin

or nobody

 

more haters than lovers.

 

people are not good to each other.

perhaps if they were

our deaths would not be so sad.

 

meanwhile I look at young girls

stems

flowers of chance.

 

there must be a way.

 

surely there must be a way we have not yet

thought of.

 

who put this brain inside of me?

 

it cries

it demands

it says that there is a chance.

 

it will not say

“no.”

 

what you see is what you see:

madhouses are rarely

on display.

 

that we still walk about and

scratch ourselves and light

cigarettes

 

is more the miracle

than bathing beauties

 

than roses and the moth.

to sit in a small room

and drink a can of beer

and roll a cigarette

while listening to Brahms

on a small red radio

 

is to have come back

from a dozen wars

alive

 

listening to the sound

of the refrigerator

 

as bathing beauties rot

 

and the oranges and apples

roll away.

 

I’m glad when they arrive

and I’m glad when they leave

 

I’m glad when I hear their heels

approaching my door

and I’m glad when those heels

walk away

 

I’m glad to fuck

I’m glad to care

and I’m glad when it’s over

 

and

since it’s always either

starting or finishing

I’m glad

most of the time

 

and the cats walk up and down

and the earth spins around the sun

and the phone rings:

 

“this is Scarlet.”

 

“who?”

 

“Scarlet.”

 

“o.k., get it on over.”

 

and I hang up thinking

maybe this is it

 

go in

take a quick shit

shave

bathe

 

dress

 

dump the sacks

and cartons of empty

bottles

 

sit down to the sound of

heels approaching

more an army approaching than

victory

 

it’s Scarlet

and in my kitchen the faucet

keeps dripping

needs a washer.

 

I’ll take care of it

later.

 

red hair

real

she whirled it

and she asked

“is my ass still on?”

 

such comedy.

 

there is always one woman

to save you from another

 

and as that woman saves you

she makes ready to

destroy.

 

“sometimes I hate you,”

she said.

 

she walked out and sat on

my porch and read my copy

of Catullus, she stayed out

there for an hour.

 

people walked up and down

past my place

wondering where such an ugly

old man could get

such beauty.

 

I didn’t know either.

 

when she walked in I grabbed

her and pulled her to my lap.

I lifted my glass and told

her, “drink this.”

“oh,” she said, “you’ve mixed

wine with Jim Beam, you’re gonna

get nasty.”

 

“you henna your hair, don’t

you?”

 

“you don’t
look
,” she said and

stood up and pulled down her

slacks and panties and

the hair down there was the

same as the hair

up there.

 

Catullus himself couldn’t have wished

for more historic or

wondrous grace;

then he went

goofy

 

for tender boys

not mad enough

to become

women.

 

I cut the middle fingernail of the middle

finger

right hand

real short

and I began rubbing along her cunt

as she sat upright in bed

spreading lotion over her arms

face

and breasts

after bathing.

then she lit a cigarette:

“don’t let this put you off,”

and smoked and continued to rub the

lotion on.

I continued to rub the cunt.

“you want an apple?” I asked.

“sure,” she said, “you got one?”

but I got to her—

she began to twist

then she rolled on her side,

she was getting wet and open

like a flower in the rain.

then she rolled on her stomach

and her most beautiful ass

looked up at me

and I reached under and got the

cunt again.

she reached around and got my

cock, she rolled and twisted,

I mounted

my face falling into the mass

of red hair that overflowed

from her head

and my fattened cock entered

into the miracle.

later we joked about the lotion

and the cigarette and the apple.

then I went out and got some chicken

and shrimp and french fries and buns

and mashed potatoes and gravy and

cole slaw, and we ate. she told me

how good she felt and I told her

how good I felt and we ate

the chicken and the shrimp and the

french fries and the buns and the

mashed potatoes and the gravy and

the cole slaw too.

 

light brown stare

 

that dumb blank marvelous

light brown stare

 

I’ll take care of

it.

 

you needn’t carry me

anymore

with your Cleopatra

movie star

tricks

 

do you realize

that if I were an adding machine

I might break down

tabulating

how many times you’ve used

that light brown stare?

 

not that you’re not the best

with your light brown stare.

 

someday some crazy son of a bitch

is going to murder you

 

and you’ll cry out my name

you’ll finally know

what you should have known

 

so very long

ago.