The Lunatic (3 page)

“Swimming with sharks,” a drunk concurred,

Fixing me with one bloody eye.

It was summer, and then as quietly as a bird lands,

The sidewalks were dusted with snow

And I was shivering without a coat.

I had hopes we’d meet again, I told myself,

Have a drink and recall the nights

When we used to paint this town red.

I thought you’d be in a straitjacket by now,

You’d say to me,

Making funny faces at doctors and nurses.

Instead, here you are full of fleas,

Dodging cars and buses

To follow a pair of good-looking legs home.

“And you, Judas,” I summoned the strength to shout,

“Will you be coming to my funeral?”

But he was gone already. It had gotten late in the day,

Very late—and since there was nothing

That could be done about it—

I thought I’d better toddle along myself.

ON THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE

Perhaps you’re one of the many dots at sunset

I see moving slowly or standing motionless,

Watching either the gulls in the sky or the barge

With a load of trash passing on the river below.

The one, whose family doesn’t want to hear from,

On his way to a night class in acting, passing

An old Chinese waiter going in the opposite direction,

And a bodybuilder and a nurse holding hands.

And what about the one I’m always hoping to run into?

Though I barely remember what she looked like?

She could be one of the few that have lingered on,

Or the one that vanished since I last glanced that way.

THE ESCAPEE

The name of a girl I once loved

Flew off the tip of my tongue

In the street today,

Like a pet fly

Kept in a matchbox by a madman—

Gone!

Making my mouth fall open

And stay open,

So everyone walking past me could see.

OH, MEMORY

You’ve been paying visits

To that hunchbacked tailor

In his long-torn-down shop,

Hoping to catch a glimpse

Of yourself in his mirror

As he sticks steel pins

And makes chalk marks

On a small child’s black suit

Last seen with its pants

Dangling from a high beam

In your grandmother’s attic.

THE MEDIUM

This round table belonged to a woman

Who used to summon ghostly visitors

And transmit their cryptic messages

To her guests holding hands in a circle,

Their faces dimly lit by a candle,

Hoping to see their loved one appear,

Or at least hear the familiar voice

Greet them once again, divulge a secret

From beyond the grave,

Make someone in the room cover their ears,

Another one break into sobs,

While beyond the thick drawn curtains,

The snowflakes are starting to fall

On this cold, dark and silent night,

Each one determined to bury something

No matter how small, no matter how big.

PAST THE FUNERAL HOME

Where lives a pretty girl

Who comes and goes

Twirling her red dress

Like a Spanish dancer,

And a blind old healer

I never laid eyes on,

Who has a line of women

Waiting on the stairs

Late into the night

With their heads hung low,

Clutching their purses

Or saying a silent prayer.

SO EARLY IN THE MORNING

It pains me to see an old woman fret over

A few small coins outside a grocery store—

How swiftly I forget her as my own grief

Finds me again—a friend at death’s door

And the memory of the night we spent together.

I had so much love in my heart afterward,

I could have run into the street naked

Confident anyone I met would understand

My madness and my need to tell them

About life being both cruel and beautiful,

But I did not—despite the overwhelming evidence:

A crow bent over a dead squirrel in the road,

The lilac bushes flowering in some yard,

And the sight of a dog free from his chain

Searching through a neighbor’s trash can.

THE BAMBOO GARDEN

Bad luck, my very own, sit down and listen to me:

You make yourself scarce for months at a time

Making preparations for some new calamity,

Then come to shake me awake some dark night,

Wiping the sweat off your face, asking

For a glass of water, while mumbling something

About how a mixed bag of misery and laughter

Is all that I can expect from a life like mine,

While I listen, none the wiser like a blind man

Holding a fortune cookie in a Chinese restaurant

And waiting for a waiter to come along

And read it to him, but there isn’t one coming,

’Cause it’s late and the Bamboo Garden is closed.

WET MATCHES

Once again the short, gray days,

The low sky, the steady rain

Over these derelict neighborhoods

One catches sight of a train.

Old people hold their heads

In windows of unlit rooms.

Or withdraw quietly

To lie with their faces to the wall.

Sweet summer beyond recall,

The children are in school

Doing their wretched lessons

While their fathers play pool.

Girl in trouble and the boy to blame,

Soaked through and shivering,

Holding a wet match to her cigarette,

Here comes your bus!

AT THE JEWELER’S

A small scale accustomed to

Weighing precious stones

Sat still while he tucked

A magnifying lens in his eye.

Outside, an icy drizzle had commenced

Pelting the gray pavement.

Flocks of black umbrellas

Darkened the view of the street

As she leaned on the counter,

Muttering something about how much

That little ring means to her,

While he hastened to give it back.

DEAD TELEPHONE

Something or someone I can’t name

Made me sit down to this game

I’m still playing many years later

Without ever learning its rules or finding out

Who’s winning or losing,

Even as I strain my wits studying

The shadow I cast on the wall

Like a man waiting for a phone call

All night by a dead telephone

Telling himself it might still ring.

The silence around me so deep

I hear a pack of cards being shuffled,

But when I look back startled,

There’s only a moth on a window screen,

Its mind like mine too wired to sleep.

OUR PLAYHOUSE

We played in the shadow

Of murderers’ at work,

Kneading soldiers out of mud,

Stepping on them

When we were done playing.

Girls walking the streets

Gave us bread to eat.

An old dog with a limp

Kept us warm at night

As we huddled in doorways.

My friends, my playmates,

We never saw the dead,

Only the birds scatter

After we heard the gunshots

And ducked our heads.

VICES OF THE EVENING

Venus in a bath with cockroaches.

Everyone else hidden from view;

Their windows either dark or lit

And hung with grubby curtains.

Snow spitting out of the dark sky,

Making sidewalks treacherous,

Not even one person in sight,

Or a car moving in the street.

Imagination, Devil’s old helper,

Showed me her bare breasts

Being soaped as I hurried by,

Because the wind in my face was raw.

THE FEAST

Dine in style tonight

With your misery, Adele.

Put on your silver wig

And that black dress

With plenty of cleavage,

And haughtily offer it a seat

At the head of the table,

Leaving the intimacies

That are sure to follow

This feast of empty plates

To your friend’s imagination.

THE EXECUTIONER’S DAUGHTER

Waiting for her to come to me

After she’s done scrubbing the bloodstains

Out of her father’s shirt,

Already hearing her bare feet

On the hard floor outside of my cell,

While quickly thinking up ways

To occupy my two hands

As she steps out of her skirt,

And explain to her between kisses

How after wasting a lifetime

In devotion to various lost causes,

I found happiness in the arms

Of Death’s prettiest daughter,

Tending to her bedtime needs

While I still have a head on my shoulders.

THE FLEA

What a little flea loves to see

Is two lovers undress

And jump into bed,

And be done with their lovemaking

Quickly, so it can have

Them all to itself,

As they nod off in each other’s arms,

Quitting their snoring

Only to scratch themselves.

AUTUMN EVENING

Poor goldfish

Some kid threw in

A rain puddle.

No, worse than that!

Swimming

In a dead man’s

Pickle jar.

Yeah, poor fish.

IN THIS PRISON OF OURS

Where the turnkey is so discreet,

No one ever sees him

Making the rounds,

It takes a brave soul

To tap on the wall of his cell

When the lights are out,

Hoping to be overheard,

If not among the angels in heaven,

Then among the damned in hell.

IV

THIS TOWN IS ALRIGHT