New Poems Book Three (4 page)

my father always said, “early to bed and

early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy

and wise.”

it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house

and we were up at dawn to the smell of

coffee, frying bacon and scrambled

eggs.

my father followed this general routine

for a lifetime and died young, broke,

and, I think, not too

wise.

taking note, I rejected his advice and it

became, for me, late to bed and late

to rise.

now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered

the world but I’ve avoided

numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some

common pitfalls

and have met some strange, wonderful

people

one of whom

was

myself—someone my father

never

knew.

nothing is worse than

a hopelessly untalented

entertainer.

unlike the talented

they have boundless

exuberance and no

self-doubt.

luckily, for us,

we seldom encounter

one of them

except

sometimes

at small parties

or as entertainers

in

cheap cafes.

you don’t have to actually

go to hell

to know what hell must be

like: just looking

at

and listening to

one of them

gives you a

good

idea.

there seems to be

one simple undying

rule:

the worse the

talent

the more they

are sure

of

it.

life can be vacant like the inside of

old shoes while dogs howl in the

rain.

sometimes a certain anger is necessary to

stay alive.

I drive into the gas station

in my ’67 Volks and

there’s a woman parked ahead of

me.

I honk

she looks back.

I honk again

make a motion with my hand

for her to get out and pour some

gas into her tin buggy. she looks

astonished.

it’s a cut-rate self-serve gas station

and

we all suffer the long lines of

merciless doom.

the attendant finally comes out and

handles her

affairs. she tells him about me:

I am a bastard—no style, no

decency.

I

look at her ass

decide I don’t like it

much. she looks at my face and

decides the same. as she

drives off I lift the

hood

grab the nozzle and think,

maybe she was out to fuck me;

I just didn’t feel in the mood

for it.

when the attendant walks up

I see by his face

that he felt the same way.

I pay, ask him directions

to Beverly Hills and drive off

into the sick drooping

pink sun.

that dental assistant in

Burbank

a few years

back

so dedicated

cleaning my teeth

leaning against

me

her large breasts

pressed against my arm and

shoulder

her eyes

looking into

mine

asking

“does this

hurt?”

I still think about

her golden breasts.

she probably told

her girlfriends about it

later,

laughing her ass

off:

“I turned-on this old

fuck.

Christ, it was like

raising the

dead.

his old dried dick

waving in the

air.

his rotting mouth

hoping for

one last kiss!”

yes, dear, it hurts

but our dumb peasant wedding

was greater than

you know.

went into this sushi place to eat.

sat at the counter.

2 fellows to my left.

one of them asked me, “what’s

that beer you’re drinking?”

I told him.

he said that his beer was better,

that he’d buy me one.

“no thanks,” I said.

“how about a sake?”

“thank you very much, but no.”

“have you ever tried

octopus?”

“no.”

“here, try some of mine.”

“yeah, try some!” said his friend.

“thanks, but no.”

“no, here! here! try it!”

he put a piece on my plate.

I picked it up and began to chew.

it tasted like a piece of rubber.

“you like it?”

“it tastes like rubber.”

there was a pause, then

“we live on a boat,” said the nearest

speaker.

“in the harbor,” said the other.

“try some sake,” said the first.

“no, thanks.”

“you live on a boat?” the other

asked.

“no.”

“we bought you a beer anyway,” they said,

“here it is, try it.”

“ah, thank you.”

I took a hit.

“good, yes, thank you.”

“want some more octopus?”

“no thanks, you’re very kind.”

“we live on a boat,” the first said.

I continued eating.

“you live around here?” he

asked.

“yes.”

“where?”

“in town.”

“where in town?”

“near first and Bandini.”

“you know Peaches? she lives

on Bandini.”

“I know her, she gives loud parties.”

“she’s married to my brother.”

“oh, good.”

“Peaches is a great girl!”

“yeah.”

“I’m going to buy you a sake.”

“no, thanks.”

“how come?”

“I drink too much, I start to roll.”

“rock and roll?”

“no, just roll.”

“everybody comes to the parties on our

boat, but when

the food and booze are

gone, they leave.”

“they do?”

“yeah, then we gotta do all the clean

up ourselves!”

a long pause.

I continued eating, then said,

“well, listen, thanks for the beer,

I’ve got to go.”

“where you going?”

“home.”

“we’re having a party on the boat

tonight …”

“good.”

“what’d you say your name

was?”

“Hank,” I said.

“I’m Bob.”

“I’m Eddie.”

I walked around the counter to

pay.

then as I walked back to exit:

“don’t you want one for the

road?” Bob asked.

“no, thanks a lot, though.”

“see you around,” said Eddie.

“sure,” I said.

then I was outside.

I walked back to my car

thinking, well, anyhow,

now I can tell people that I

have eaten

octopus.

about ten minutes before the last race they were walking

through the parking lot to their car, he walking in front

by a good four feet, his head turned back toward her

as he walked and talked.

“why did we have to sit in that crowded section?

I never want to sit there again! I couldn’t

concentrated
!”

and she replied, “oh, shut up, Harry.”

he kept walking, talking with his head turned: “I
TOLD
you in advance

I wouldn’t be able to
CONCENTRATE
there!”

and she said,

“oh, go on, go on, you always make some

EXCUSE
!”

he stopped.

she stopped. they stared at each

other.

“god damn it,” he said,
“YOU
take the car! I’m going to

take a taxi!”

and she said,

“now, don’t do anything
FOOLISH
, don’t be

STUPID
!”

then they started walking again with the same four feet

of space between them.

in the distance

the call to post sounded for the last

race.

“who’d you bet in the

9th?” she asked.

he replied, “that’s
MY
own

god-damned

business!”

then I started the engine of my

car and could hear

no more.

I was already old and hadn’t made it

as a writer

when a young man sitting on my couch

asked me,

“what do you think of Huxley living up

in the Hollywood hills while you live down

here?”

“I don’t think anything about it,”

I told him.

“what do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean, I don’t think it has anything

to do with anything.”

now the young man who asked me

that question lives up in the hills

and I still live down here

and I still don’t think it has anything

to do with

anything.

especially with writing.

but people keep asking foolish

questions,

don’t

they?

this special place of ourselves

sometimes explodes in our

faces.

I got a flat on the freeway yesterday,

changed the right rear wheel on the

shoulder,

the big rigs storming by,

slamming the sky

against my head and

body.

it felt like I was clinging to the

edge of the earth,

30 minutes late for the first

post.

but strangely, something

about the experience

was very much like emerging reluctantly

a second time

from my

mother’s womb.

at the prizefights

between each round a card girl

climbs up into the ring

holding up a card to

indicate the number of the next

round.

the yowling of the men is

hardly to be

believed.

here were brave fighters

putting their lives and guts

on the line

and the crowd responds much more

enthusiastically

to female

ass.

why not give the crowd just one

card girl after another and

forget all about the fighters?

then those men could simply sit and

fantasize about having one

of those card girls

all to himself

in his bedroom.

he then would not have

to deal with such things

as PMS, relatives, self-love,

ambition, the fact that she

was only a bundle of intestine and

other sundry parts, or remember that

card girls must be faithfully and

continually adored

for the beauty they had never

earned.

yes, give them each a card girl

forever shaking her butt,

each man with a card girl

in his bedroom forever

fucking her forever

bang bang bang

nothing but that—

no fights, no farts, no

dark nights, no cousins, no mothers,

no other lovers, no pregnancies, no

madness while gradually growing

old, no toothaches, no snoring,

no dull endless tv nights,

just one perfect card girl for each

man,

bang, bang, bang,

sperm and endless desire and the dream

forever, one card girl for each

horny man, forget the fighters,

forget everything

else!

yeah.

I left while the last fight

was still in progress,

the 6 card girls

sitting in their folding

chairs, their faces

somehow looking

more beautiful than ever

but

mirroring a horror to

come.

outside as I moved to

my car

the night was clear and crisp and

real.

well, I thought, maybe you’re

just too old to understand.

I smiled at that as I slid

my key into

the car

door.

it isn’t mentioned

too often

but in the old West

many men were simply shot in

the back.

this matter of bravely facing

each other

in the street

and drawing their guns

was

rare.

the best shooter was

usually

the one who

pulled his gun and

fired first

while the other was

having a drink

or eating

or playing cards

or bedded down with

a lady

or

otherwise

occupied.

“dead men don’t talk,”

they used to

say.

in the new West

things haven’t changed

at all

just the weaponry:

now they can get in 17 or 18

or

more

shots in the back

quicker than you can say

holy

shit.

this man used to be an

interesting writer,

he was able to say brisk and

refreshing things.

at the time

I suggested to the editors and

the critics that he was one to

be watched

and also that he had hardly yet been

noticed

and that he certainly should now be

noticed.

this writer used some of my

remarks as blurbs for his

books, which I didn’t

mind.

all of his publications were little

chapbooks, 16 to 32

pages,

mimeographed.

they came out at a

rapid rate,

perhaps three or four a

year.

the problem was that each

chapbook seemed a little weaker

than the one that preceded

it

but he continued to use my old

blurbs.

my wife noticed the change

in his writing

too.

“what’s happened to his

writing?” she asked me.

“he’s doing too much of it, he’s

pushing it out, forcing it.”

“this stuff is bad, you ought to

tell him to stop using your

blurbs.”

“I can’t do that, I just wish he

wouldn’t publish so much.”

“well, you publish all the

time too.”

“with me,” I told her, “it’s

different.”

yesterday I received another of his

little chapbooks

with his delicate dedication scrawled

on the title page.

this latest effort was totally

flat.

the words just fell off the

page,

dead on

arrival.

where had he gone?

too much ambition?

too much just doing it for the sake

of doing it?

just not waiting for the words to

pile up inside and then

explode of their own

volition?

I decided then I should take a whole week

off,

be on the safe side,

just shut the computer down,

forget the whole damned silly

business

for awhile.

as I said, that was

yesterday.