The Last Night of the Earth Poems (28 page)

 

I was a scraggly bum most of my

life

and to get from one city to another

I took the buses.

I don’t know how many times I

saw the Grand Canyon,

going east to west

and west to east.

it was just dusty windows,

the backs of necks, stop-offs at

intolerable eating places

and always the old

constipation

blues.

and once, a half-assed romance

with no socially redeeming

value.

 

then I found myself riding the

trains.

the food was beautiful

and the restrooms were

lovely

and I stayed in the bar

cars.

some of them were

so grand:

round curving picture

windows

and large overhead

domes,

the sun shone right on

down through your

glass

and at night you could

get

stinko

and watch the stars and

the moon ride

right along with

you.

and the best, since there was more

space

people weren’t forced

to speak to

you.

 

then after the trains I found

myself on the

jetliners,

quick trips to cities and

back.

I was like many of the

others:

I had a briefcase

and was writing on pieces

of paper.

I was on the hustle.

and I hustled and hounded the

stewardesses for drink after

drink.

the food and the view were

bad.

and the people tended to

talk to you

but there were ways to

discourage

that.

the worst about flying was that

there were people waiting for

you at the airports.

baggage was no problem:

you had your carry-on bag,

change of underwear, socks,

one shirt, toothbrush, razor,

liquor.

then the jetliners stopped.

you stayed in the city,

you shacked with unsavory

ladies and you purchased a

series of old cars.

you were much luckier with the

cars than with the

ladies.

you bought the cars for a

song

and drove them with a classic

abandon.

they never needed an oil

change and they lasted and

lasted.

on one the springs were

broken.

on another they stuck up

out of the seat and into your

ass.

one had no reverse

gear.

this was good for me,

it was like playing a game of

chess—

keeping your King from getting

checkmated.

another would only start

when parked on a

hill.

there was one where the

lights wouldn’t go on until you

hit a bump

HARD.

 

of course, they all died

finally.

and it was always a true

heartbreaker for me when

I had to watch them towed off

to the junkyard.

 

another I lost when it was impounded

on a drunk driving

rap.

they sent me an impound bill that was

four times larger than the purchase

price

so I let them keep

it.

 

the best car I ever had was the one

my first wife gave me when divorcing

me.

it was two years old,

as old as our marriage.

 

but the last car was (and is)

the very best, purchased new for

$30,000 cash. (well, I wrote

them a check).

it has everything: air bag,

anti-lock brakes, everything.

 

also, 2 or 3 times a year

people send a limousine

so we can attend various

functions.

these are very nice

because you can drink like

hell and not worry about the

drunk tank.

 

but I’m going to bypass that

private plane, that private

boat.

upkeep and rental space

can be a real pain in the

butt.

I’ll tell you one thing, though,

one night not so long

ago

I had a dream that I

could fly.

I mean, just by working

my arms and my legs

I could fly through the

air

and I did.

there were all these people

on the ground,

they were reaching up their

arms and trying to pull me

down

but

they couldn’t do

it.

 

I felt like pissing on

them.

they were so

jealous.

 

all they had to do was

to work their way

slowly up to it

as I had

done.

 

such people think

success grows on

trees.

 

you and I,

we know

better.

 

the big thrill

was being quite young and

reading
Of Time and the

River

by Thomas Wolfe.

what a fat and wondrous

book!

I read it again and

again.

 

then a couple of decades

went by

and I read the book

again.

 

I disliked the poetic prose

right off.

I put the book down and

looked about the

room.

 

I felt cheated.

 

the thrill was gone.

 

I decided to leave town.

 

I was in Los Angeles.

 

two days later I was sitting on a

Greyhound bus

going to Miami.

 

and I had a pint of whiskey

in one pocket

and a paperback copy of

Fathers and Sons

in the

other.

 

the worst was closing the bars at

2 a.m.

with my lady.

going home to get a couple hours

sleep,

then as a substitute postal carrier

to be on call at

5:30 a.m.

sitting there with the other

subs

along the little ledge

outside the magazine

cases.

 

too often given a route to

case and carry,

starting 15 or 20 minutes

late,

the sweat pouring down

your face,

gathering under the

armpits.

you’re dizzy, sick,

trying to get the case

up, pull it down and

sack it for the truck to

pick up.

 

you worked on sheer

nerve,

reaching down into the

gut,

flailing, fighting

as the last minutes,

the last

seconds

rushed toward

you.

 

then to get on the

route with the people

and the dogs,

to make the rounds

on a new

route,

making your legs

go,

making your feet

walk

as the sun baked

you alive,

you fought through

your first

round

with 6 or 7 more to

go.

never time for lunch,

you’d get a write-up

if you were 5 minutes

late.

a few too many writeups

and you were

finished,

they moved you

out.

 

it was a living, a

deathly

living, to somehow

finish your route,

come in and often

be told

you were assigned

to the night pickup

run, another

ball-buster.

or

if you got out of that

to drive on in

to your place

to find your lady

already drunk,

dirty dishes in the

sink,

the dog unfed,

the flowers unwatered,

the bed

unmade,

the ashtrays full of

punched-out

lipstick-smeared

cigarettes.

 

then to get in the tub

with a beer.

you were no longer

young,

you were no longer

anything,

just worn down and

out

with your lady in the

other room

lisping inanities and

insanities,

pouring her glasses

of cheap

wine.

 

you were always going

to get rid of her,

you were working on

that,

you were caught between

the post office and

her,

it was the vise of

death,

each side crushing in

upon you.

 

“Jesus, baby, please,

please, just shut up for

a little while…”

 

“ah, you asshole!

what’re you doing in

there, playing with

yourself?”

 

to come roaring out

of that tub, all the impossibilities

of that day and that life

corkscrewing through you

ripping away

everything.

 

out of that tub,

a naked, roaring rocket

of battered body and

mind:

 

“YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE,

WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT

ANYTHING?

SITTING THERE ON YOUR

DEAD ASS AND

SUCKING AT THE VINO!”

 

to rush into the other room,

looking all about,

the walls whirling,

the entire world tilting in

against you.

“DON’T HIT ME! DON’T HIT

ME!

YOU’D HIT ME BUT YOU

WOULDN’T HIT A

MAN!”

 

“HELL NO, I WOULDN’T

HIT A MAN, YOU THINK

I’M CRAZY?”

 

to grab the bottle from

her,

to drain damn near

half of it.

to find another bottle,

open it,

pour a tall waterglass

full,

then to smash the glass

against a

wall,

to explode it like

that

in purple glory.

 

to find a new glass,

sit down and pour a

full one.

 

she’d be quiet

then.

we’d drink an

hour or so

like that.

 

then, to get

dressed,

cigarette dangling,

you are feeling somewhat

better.

then you are moving

toward the

door.

 

“hey! where the hell

you going?”

 

“I’m going to the fucking

bar!”

 

“not without me!

not without me, buster!”

 

“all right, get your ass

into gear!”

 

to walk there together.

to get our stools.

to sit before the long mirror.

the mirror you always hated to

look into.

 

to tell the bartender,

“vodka 7.”

 

to have her tell the bartender,

“scotch and water.”

 

everything was far away

then,

the post office, the world,

the past and the

future.

 

to have our drinks arrive.

to take the first hit in the

dark bar.

 

life couldn’t get any

better.