New Poems Book Three (14 page)

I don’t remember

much

about the sixties

I was working

12 hours a night

in the post office

but I do remember

one day

a friend of mine

took me to his friend’s

house.

it was a strange-

looking house—

they had

painted it

red yellow green

and blue.

the colors

ran in every

direction and also

ran together—

very

psychedelic.

inside there were

many people

lying around.

they didn’t move

much.

they appeared to

be asleep

although

it was only

one p.m.

“these are the

beautiful people,”

my friend told

me.

“yeah,” I said,

“some of the women

look

pretty good.”

I was feeling

smart and walked

over to the

best looker.

she had long

blonde hair

and an

almost perfect

body.

she was

stretched out

on a couch

near the

fireplace.

I shook

her.

“come on,

baby, let’s

fuck!”

“peace, brother,”

she said,

“some other

time.”

we walked on

through

the house.

I asked my

friend,

“how can all

these people

sleep

with all that

loud music

playing?”

he laughed,

“you’re a real

cube
.”

we left and

went back to

his house.

we sat and

talked

while his

wife created

ceramic art

in the

kitchen.

I slept on

their couch

that night

and left

in

the morning.

I saw

my friend

again

about

three weeks

later.

driving over

I passed

the house

where

I had seen

the blonde

on

the couch.

now the

house was painted

grey,

grey and

white.

I went

to

my friend’s

house.

his wife was

in the kitchen

working

on collages.

after

a few drinks

I asked

him,

“what happened

to the house

down

the street?”

“they were

too obvious,”

he said,

“they got

busted.”

“that grey

and white

paint job,”

I said,

“it’s hardly

as nice.”

“that’s true,”

he said.

we looked at

each other.

“they should

have painted

it

grey and

blue,”

I told

him.

she claimed to be

worldly

to have traveled

everywhere

was said to have known

many famous men and even

slept with some of

them.

really she had

(she said)

done it

all.

after dinner

at a neighborhood Japanese restaurant

I asked her

if she would care for a

drink.

she ran her eyes

over the menu

then said she guessed

she’d have the

sake

which I

ordered.

and when the drink

arrived

she picked it

up

sipped

then quickly set it

down

looking disgusted.

“what’s the matter?”

I asked.

she replied,

“why is this

stuff

hot
?”

I turn on the landing lights and head for the

runway where the crowd waits.

what a fucking farce

but I’ve got to play it out.

the plane rolls to a stop.

I step down into the crowd,

mikes in face, cameras on.

I answer questions

on the run.

really can’t be bothered, you know.

I shove through.

they make you feel important.

Jesus, don’t they have anything else to do?

a young girl screams my name.

I give her the finger.

there, that’ll hold her.

where was that whore when I was

living on boiled weenies?

I finally fight my way to the limo.

couple of babes in there.

well, what the hell.

somebody else in there.

forget his name.

he hands me a drink.

now, that’s better.

I tell the driver, “get the fuck out

of here!”

we move out.

the guy who handed me the drink

says, “we got you booked on Letterman

tomorrow night.”

I drain my drink.

“fuck that, I’m not going!”

“but it’s national tv!”

“fuck ’em! fix me another drink!”

we are on the freeway then,

going somewhere.

my place? a hotel? I don’t know.

one of the babes asks me a

stupid question.

I don’t bother to answer.

everybody’s stupid, it’s a stupid, stupid

world.

I’m all alone.

I get the second drink, slam it down.

“stop the car!” I yell at the

chauffeur, “I want to drive!”

“but, sir, we’re on the freeway!”

“stop the fucking car!”

nobody says anything,

the babes or the guy talking about

national tv.

the chauffeur works his way to

the shoulder, parks it, gets out,

opens the door.

I climb out.

“you,” I tell him, “sit between the

whores!”

he does as I say.

I get in front, put it in drive and

slide into traffic.

it’s been a long hard month.

I open the limo up, real power, it’s

cool.

“somebody fix me another

drink!” I yell back at them.

it’s been a long month, a long

one.

I’ve got to

unwind!

doesn’t anybody else realize what it’s like to

be alone at the

top?

“Hitchcock, party of nine!”

someone shouted.

and here they came, my god,

some with zippers open, others

with their shirts hanging out,

coats flung over their shoulders,

grinning and belching, nine fellows

out for a good time!

they sat down and began

beating on the table demanding

drinks and while the pounding

was going on, one of the men

made a crude remark

to the waitress, must

have been funny for they all started

LAUGHING
, a couple of them nearly falling

off their chairs.

then some of them got up,

began grabbing drinks from nearby tables

to the astonishment of

the other patrons,

gulped the drinks down,

and then one of them began a striptease;

disrobing as the others

applauded

he stripped quickly to his

red and blue shorts.

I mean, these fellows were determined to have

a
GOOD TIME
!

some of the other

diners began shouting at

them:

“
ASSHOLES
!”

“
SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP
!”

“
GO SOME PLACE ELSE
!”

but they didn’t seem to hear as

their drinks arrived.

then they started yelling their

orders at the waiter:

“
I’LL HAVE ROAST LAMB AND

APPLESAUCE!
”

“
I’LL HAVE THE GRILLED TROUT!
”

“
I’LL HAVE YOUR ASS ON A PLATTER!
”

“
I’LL HAVE
…”

as the police suddenly arrived the fellow in

red and blue shorts rose and said,

“what’s the matter, officer?

we’re only having fun!

what the hell’s wrong?”

“yeah,” said one of the others, “what the

hell’s wrong?

we’re only having fun.”

then the lights went out.

a woman screamed.

chairs scraped on the floor

as people began to leave their tables.

outside, sirens were approaching.

the party of nine

ran back outside to the parking lot,

jumped into their cars and gunned them to

the exits.

the police couldn’t tell who was who,

who was in what car.

red and blue shorts

was one of the first out in a yellow

convertible.

the officers managed to stop a few cars, all the wrong

ones.

the restaurant, one of the very best in town, took

a huge financial and public relations hit.

it was one of those special places

in the better part of town

where the famous, the talented and the rich

preferred to dine

and where they could

on occasion

let off a little

steam.

I had worked there 14 years, mostly

on the night shift, eleven-and-one-half

hours a night.

one day out at the track this fellow

walked up to me.

“hey, man,” he said to me, “how are you?”

“hello,” I answered.

I didn’t remember him,

there had been 3 or 4 thousand of us working

together in that building.

“I wondered what happened to you,”

he went on, “did you retire?”

“no, I quit,” I told him.

“you quit? then what’d you

do?”

“I wrote some books.

I got lucky.”

without a further word he turned

and walked off

he thought it was bullshit.

well, maybe it was,

but at least it was my bullshit, not

his.

I don’t know

but I think sometimes that fellows like

Ezra and Céline and Ernie, Babe Ruth, Dillinger,

DiMaggio, Joe Louis, Kennedy, LaMotta,

Graziano, Willie Pep and Roosevelt

just had a little more than the

rest of us.

or is it just ballyhoo and nostalgia

which seems to separate them from

us?

actually, there are probably others

here among us

who are better at what they do

(or at least just as good)

as our heroes of the past

but

for us now

they are too close—

we pass them in the hall

see them waiting at stop lights

or buying

Xmas trees and windshield wipers

or we see them

standing quietly in line at the

post office.

one of the few grand things

in this life

are the brave and talented people

living

among

us

unnoticed.

life has both kind

and unkind

ways.

she knew Hemingway in Cuba

and she took a photo of him one day

drunk before noon—

stretched out on the floor

face puffed with drink

gut hanging out

hardly looking

macho

at all.

he heard the click of the camera,

lifted his head a bit from the

floor and

said, “honey,
please
don’t ever publish that

photo!”

I have the photo framed now

on the south wall

facing the door.

the lady gifted me

this.

now her book has just been

published in Italy and is

called

Hemingway
.

there are many photos:

Hemingway with the lady and her

dog.

Hemingway’s work

room.

Hemingway’s library with mounted water buffalo

head.

Hemingway feeding a

cat.

Hemingway’s bed.

Hemingway and Mary, Venezia, 31

Ottobre 1948.

Hemingway, Venezia, Marzo

1954.

but

no photo

of Hemingway

soused before

noon.

for a man who was very good

with the word

the lady kept

hers.

“the acting was really good, wasn’t

it?” she asks.

“no,” I answer, “I didn’t like it.”

“oh?” she says.

I didn’t know what else to say.

once again we have disagreed on

a performance.

this time it was on tv.

I rise from the couch.

“please let the cat in,” she says.

I let the cat in.

then I walk up the stairway.

I won’t see my wife again until bedtime.

I sit here, light a cigar.

I can’t help it, it’s difficult for me to

like much of what is being currently

written and performed.

my wife tends to blame my

childhood, a certainly restricted and

loveless

upbringing.

yet I tend to believe, that in spite of

this, I still have the ability to make good

judgments.

well, things could be worse:

earthquake, a 6-day rain, a run-

over

cat.

I lean back, draw deeply on the

cigar, then let it all out:

a wondrous cloud of blue-gray

smoke

as my insufficient critical soul winks at

eternity and then

yawns.