What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (17 page)

naked in that bright

light

the four horse falls

and throws a 112 pound

boy into the hooves

of 35,000 eyes.

good night, sweet

little

motherfucker.

new worlds shine in the dust

come up through the slums of the mind only

to choke on mosquito

ideas.

it's most difficult

like eating a salad

in the ordinary café of the world;

it's most difficult

to create art

here.

look about. the pieces to work with are

missing. they must be created or

found.

the critics should be generous and the critics are

seldom

generous.

they think it's easy to

put out water with fire.

but there's been no wasted effort

no matter what they've done

to us:

the critics

the lost women

the lost jobs,

damn them all anyhow

they're hardly as interesting as

this ordinary café, this ordinary world,

we know there should be a better place,

an easier place,

but there's not;

that's our secret

and it's not

much.

but it's enough.

we have chosen the ordinary,

withering fire.

to create art means

to be crazy alone

forever.

miraculous

to grow old

through the wars & the women

rainy nights

stubbed toes

toothaches

walls

landladies

jails

hospitals

nightmares

I only shave a little

under the nose &

a touch below each

cheekbone &

the neck

under the chin

the remainder remains—

hair & man

miraculous

to grow old

through the wars & the women

that I did not become a great boxer

with much courage

does not matter

even though it was my

desire

I look at my hands shaving

my face

& my nose is too long

my cheeks sag

my teeth are my own (though I suppose

half are missing)

& I'm aware of ghosts & spirits & clouds

& blood & weeping & skeletons &

much more

it's warm tonight &

quiet while

shaving

& sometimes when I am ready to sleep &

I am upon my back

I think

yes

it's all been very

nice

face up

hands by side

gliding through the

years

miraculous

to grow old

though the wars & the women

& not to murder it by

thinking

too much about

it all

rather,

letting it all be

whatever it was/is

shaving is something like

seeing yourself in a

movie

the cup of soap takes on a

gentleness & the brush & the

mirror too

miraculous

to grow old &

shave

all the years of agony

now

seem almost

unimportant

& to shave an old face

allows the thoughts to be

steady and kind like

the electric light

above the

mirror

I hear an airplane

overhead

& there's a man flying

so high there

alone

making the sound

that comes through the ceiling and then

fades away

I listen to a dog barking

someplace in this

neighborhood & I

rinse the razor & place it behind

the mirror on the wall.

I'm in bed.

it's morning

and I hear:

where are your socks?

please get dressed!

why does it take you so long to

get dressed?

where's the brush?

all right, I'll give you a head

band!

what time is it?

where's the clock?

where did you put the clock?

aren't you dressed yet?

where's the brush?

where's your sandwich?

did you make a sandwich?

I'll make your sandwich.

honey and peanut butter.

and an orange.

there.

where's the brush?

I'll use a comb.

all right, holler. you lost the brush!

where did you lose the brush?

all right. now isn't that better?

where's your coat?

go find your coat.

your coat has to be around somewhere!

listen, what are you doing?

what are you playing with?

now you've spilled it all!

I hear them open the door

go down the stairway,

get into the car.

I hear them drive away. they are gone,

down the hill

on the way to

nursery school.

I'm at the racetrack every day

and he is too.

he used to be in the movie

industry.

I know him because somebody

I know knows him.

you know how that goes:

I really don't know him.

anyway, day after day,

he sees

me.

he yells my name.

my last name.

I'll shout a greeting

back.

once in a while there

will be a small

conversation, but not

much.

the other day

I was turning from the

window, money still

in hand, had made a

minor score, 20 win

on a horse that paid

$11.80 (that's

one hundred eighteen

dollars)

and he was

standing

there.

“how you doing?”

he asked.

“I got lucky,”

I answered.

“I haven't hit a

thing,” he said,

“been dropping

between 1500 and

two thousand a

day.”

“why don't you

go home?” I asked.

“lay down and take

a rest?”

he put his hand

out.

in it was a quarter

and a

dime.

“I don't have

enough for a

bet.

can you loan

me

something?

anything?”

it was the

6th race.

I hesitated,

then handed

him a

20.

“thanks, I'll see

you tomorrow.”

and then he

was

gone.

although I did

see him after

the 6th race

his head was down

and he was

slowly

walking

along.

I moved off and

took a

seat.

I didn't see him

any more that

day.

or the next.

or the

next.

or the next

week.

maybe he's working

in the movie industry

again.

he's a nicer guy

than most,

I almost like

him.

or maybe he's still

at the track,

hiding out.

it's embarrassing.

I don't need the

20 that much.

they've been running

good.

and now I'm almost

afraid I'll see him

out there.

it's almost as if I was

in debt to

him.

Shakespeare had it

right.

precious grenades inside my skull,

I'd rather grow roses than nurture self-pity,

but sometimes it really begins to tell on me

and I have visions of house trailers and

hookers slipping into giant volcanic cracks

just south of Santa Barbara.

I guess what makes me feel better

are the truly sane: the motorcycle cop

in a clean uniform who gives me a ticket and

then rides away on two wheels like a man

who never had an itchy crotch.

or the Southern California Gas Company man

will ill-fitting dentures

who knocks on my door at 8:15 a.m. and

lights up the room with his piranha smile.

yes,

the real miracles are the thousands of tiny

people who know exactly what they are doing.

I used to look for inspiration in higher

places

but the higher you go

like to Plato or God

the less space there is in which to

stand.

check it out some day. you're driving down

the street and there's a guy hanging onto

the end of a hydraulic jack

sweat bathing his naked gut

his eyes slitted as his

body shakes and trembles

but he holds on as if to an ultimate truth, and

you smile and

you put it into second gear

check the rearview mirror and think,

yes, I can make it too, and you light a

cigarette with one hand

turn on the radio with the other

and let the good life roll along like

that.

the phone rings and somebody says,

“hey, they made a movie about

Mahler. you ought to go see it.

he was as fucked-up as you are.”

the phone rings again. it's

somebody else: “you ought to see

that Mahler movie. when you get high

you always talk about Mahler's music.”

it's true: I like the way

Mahler wandered about in his

music and still retained his

passion.

he must have looked like an

earthquake walking down the

street.

he was a gambler and he shot

the works

but I'd feel foolish

walking into a movie house.

I make my own

movies.

I am the best kind of German:

in love with the music

of a great Jew.

at the track

heard the voice behind me,

“Hank…”

I turned and here was this

German youth,

maybe age 34,

needed a shave, beer on his

breath.

“I know you don't like to

be bothered…but I have

this book…”

“all right, kid, look I have

to find a place…”

I took the book over to

a trash can, put it on

top, asked his name,

autographed it,

handed it back.

“I am shaking,” he

said.

“it's all right,” I said,

“I'm just a horseplayer.”

“I've been looking for

you many days…”

“kid,” I said, “listen to

me, I can't drink with you

or pal with you.

I have to leave

now.”

“oh, I understand,”

he said.

that was good.

I didn't see him anymore

that day.

the next day I was

sitting alone in a small box

section.

then I heard a voice behind

me.

“hello, Hank,” it said.

I didn't answer.

“who do you like in this

race?” he asked.

“I mean, out of all your

experience, who do

you like?”

I turned.

it was my friend of

yesterday.

he had another book

in his lap.

I recognized it.

it was full of photographs

and writing about one of

my trips to

Europe.

I grabbed him by the

throat, shook him a bit,

then took the book, ripped down

his pants, his shorts and

jammed the book up his

ass,

then I lifted him up over my

head,

carried him down to the

railing,

tossed him onto the

track

where the 6 horse

on post parade

stepped onto the middle of

his back.

his eyeballs

squirted out

and rolled around

looking for

Andernach

and I got up and

went to the bar

for a pretzel and a

beer.

he sits all day at the bus stop

at Sunset and Western

his sleeping bag beside him.

he's dirty.

nobody bothers him.

people leave him alone.

the police leave him alone.

he could be the 2nd coming of Christ

but I doubt it.

the soles of his shoes are completely

gone.

he just laces the tops on

and sits and watches traffic.

I remember my own youthful days

(although I traveled lighter)

they were similar:

park benches

street corners

tarpaper shacks in Georgia for

$1.25 a week

not wanting the skid row church

hand-outs

too crazy to apply for relief

daytimes spent laying in public parks

bugs in the grass biting

looking into the sky

little insects whirling above my head

the breathing of white air

just breathing and waiting.

life becomes difficult:

being ignored

and ignoring.

everything turns into white air

the head fills with white air

and as invisible women sit in rooms

with successful bright-eyed young men

conversing brilliantly about everything

your sex drive

vanishes and it really

doesn't matter.

you don't want food

you don't want shelter

you don't want anything.

sometimes you die

sometimes you don't.

as I drive past

the young man on the bus stop bench

I am comfortable in my automobile

I have money in two different banks

I own my own home

but he reminds me of my young self

and I want to help him

but I don't know what to do.

today when I drove past again

he was gone

I suppose finally the world wasn't

pleased with him being there.

the bench still sits there on the corner

advertising something.