What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (22 page)

burned senseless by other people's constant

depression,

I pull the curtains apart,

aching for the gentle light.

it's there, it's there

somewhere,

I'm sure.

oh, the faces of depression, expressions

pulled down into the gluey dark.

the bitter small sour mouths,

the self-pity, the self-justification is

too much, all too much.

the faces in shadow,

deep creases of gloom.

there's no courage there, just the desire to

possess something—admiration, fame, lovers,

money, any damn thing

so long as it comes easy.

so long as they don't have to do

what's necessary.

and when they don't succeed they

become embittered,

ugly,

they imagine that they have

been slighted, cheated,

demeaned.

then they concentrate upon their

unhappiness, their last

refuge.

and they're good at that,

they are very good at that.

they have so much unhappiness

they insist upon your sharing it

too.

they bathe and splash in their

unhappiness,

they splash it upon you.

it's all they have.

it's all they want.

it's all they can be.

you must refuse to join them.

you must remain yourself.

you must open the curtains

or the blinds

or the windows

to the gentle light.

to joy.

it's there in life

and even in death

it can be

there.

when you think about how often

it all goes wrong

again and again

you begin to look at the walls

and yearn to stay inside

because the streets are the

same old movie

and the heroes all end up like

old movie heroes:

fat ass, fat face and the brain

of a lizard.

it's no wonder that

a wise man will

climb a 10,000 foot mountain

and sit there waiting

living off of berry bush leaves

rather than bet it all on two dimpled knees

that surely won't last a lifetime

and 2 times out of 3

won't remain even for one long night.

mountains are hard to climb.

thus the walls are your friends.

learn your walls.

what they have given us out there

in the streets

is something that even children

get tired of.

stay within your walls.

they are the truest love.

build where few others build.

it's the last way left.

the old guy next door died

last week,

he was 95 or 96,

I am not sure.

but I am now the oldest fart

in the neighborhood.

when I bend over to

pick up the morning

paper

I think of heart attack

or when I swim in my

pool

alone

I think,

Jesus Christ,

they'll come and

find me floating here

face down,

my 8 cats sitting on the

edge

licking and

scratching.

dying's not bad,

it's that little transition

from here to

there

that's strange

like flicking the light

switch

off.

I'm now the old fart

in the neighborhood,

been working at it for

some time,

but now I have to work

in some new

moves:

I have to forget to zip up

all the way,

wear slippers instead of my

shoes,

hang my glasses around my

neck,

fart loudly in the

supermarket,

wear unmatched

socks,

back my car into a

garbage can.

I must shorten my

stride, take small

mincing steps,

develop a squint,

bow my head and

ask, “what? what

did you say?”

I've got to get ready,

whiten my hair,

forget to

shave.

I want you to know me

when you see

me:

I'm now the old fart

in the neighborhood

and you can't tell me

a damn thing I don't already

know.

respect your elders,

sonny, and get the

hell out of my

way!

having the low-down blues and going

into a restaurant to eat.

you sit at a table.

the waitress smiles at you.

she's dumpy. her ass is too big.

she radiates kindness and sympathy.

live with her 3 months and a man would

know some real agony.

o.k., you'll tip her 15%.

you order a turkey sandwich and a

beer.

the man at the table across from you

has watery blue eyes and

a head like an elephant.

at a table further down are 3 men

with very tiny heads

and long necks

like ostriches.

they talk loudly of land development.

why, you think, did I ever come

in here when I have the low-down

blues?

then the waitress comes back with the sandwich

and she asks you if there will be anything

else?

and you tell her, no no no, this will be

fine.

then somebody behind you laughs.

it's a cork laugh filled with sand and

broken glass.

you begin eating the sandwich.

it's something.

it's a minor, difficult,

sensible action

like composing a popular song

to make a 14-year-old

weep.

you order another beer.

jesus, look at that guy

his hands hang down almost to his

knees and he's

whistling.

well, time to get out.

pick up the bill.

tip.

go to the register.

pay.

pick up a toothpick.

go out the door.

your car is still there.

and there are the 3 men with heads

and necks

like ostriches all getting into one

car.

they each have a toothpick and now

they are talking about

women.

they drive away first.

they drive away fast.

they're best, I guess.

it's an unbearably hot day.

there's a first-stage smog alert.

all the birds and plants are dead

or dying.

you start the engine.

he has on bluejeans and tennis shoes

and walks with two young girls

about his age.

every now and then he leaps

into the air and

clicks his heels together.

he's like a young colt

but somehow he also reminds me

more of a tabby cat.

his ass is soft and

he has no more on his mind

than a gnat.

he jumps along behind his girls

clicking his heels together.

then he pulls the hair of one

runs over to the other and

squeezes her neck.

he has fucked both of them and

is pleased with himself.

it has all happened

so easily for him.

and I think, ah,

my little tabby cat

what nights and days

wait for you.

your soft ass

will be your doom.

your agony

will be endless

and the girls

who are yours now

will soon belong to other men

who didn't get their cookies

and cream so easily and

so early.

the girls are practicing on you

the girls are practicing for other men

for someone out of the jungle

for someone out of the lion cage.

I smile as

I watch you walking along

clicking your heels together.

my god, boy, I fear for you

on that night

when you first find out.

it's a sunny day now.

jump

while you

can.

the young boys at the track, what are they

doing here?

6 or 7 of them running around, tearing up

their tickets, saying,

“shit! god damn! fuck it!”

they whirl about, they look like virgins,

they are going to bet again.

it's the same after each race:

“shit! god damn! fuck it!”

they leave after the last race,

skipping down the stairways like fairies,

they wear sneakers, little t-shirts, tight

pants.

put all 6 or 7 of them together and you

won't get 800 pounds.

they've never been to jail, they live

with their parents; they've never had to

work 8 to 5.

what are they doing here at the race track?

I mean, it's bad enough that my horse

fell in the 4th, snapped his left foreleg

and had to be shot.

I mean, any damn fool can go to the

race track and most damn fools do,

but these little boys hollering

“shit! god damn! fuck it!”

well, there's no war right now

we can't stick them into a uniform just yet

but wait a while.

they love to huddle and chat away the

night as I pour them wine.

my wife doesn't seem to mind and my mother-

in-law fits in nicely.

little exchanges as the hours have

their arms and legs chopped off,

their heads tossed away.

I can't believe they are

sitting there.

I can't believe their words or their

laughter.

I have no idea why they are here.

I have invited nobody.

I am the husband.

I am to act civilized.

I am to behave like them.

but I will live past them.

this night will not turn me into them.

there was a time when I used to run such

out the door.

but then I would hear over and over

what a beast I had been.

so now I sit with them,

attempt to listen.

I even lend a word now and then.

they have no idea how I feel.

I am like a surgeon cutting into the rot,

examining a malignancy.

strangely, there is nothing to be learned.

“good night, good night, drive

carefully.”

after they leave

the place reshapes itself,

the cats come out of hiding,

I have my first peaceful

moment.

my wife and I sit together.

I say nothing of the

departed.

the moon shines through

the glass doors

and the life left in me

gently surfaces.

I have survived them

one

more

time.

she awakens me almost every night,

“Hank! HANK!”

shaking me…

“yeh?” I ask.

“don't you hear that?”

“go to sleep…”

“THERE'S SOMETHING ON THE STAIRS!”

“all right…”

I get up, my feet are numb, my legs buckle

at the knees.

I have a switchblade, and also a stun

gun that can freeze a man for

15 minutes.

I bother with neither

just walk to the stairway

naked

not caring if I find a 9 foot

monster,

almost hoping to find one.

—halfway down the stairway

it's only the cat

clawing an old newspaper to

pieces.

he only wants to get out

into the night

and I let him

out.

I go back up.

sometimes I think my woman lives with me only

because she is afraid to live

alone.

“it was the cat,” I say, climbing in.

“ARE YOU SURE?”

sometimes I have to conduct

a real room-to-room search

with all the lights on.

I stand naked outside of closet doors

and say,

“o.k., come on out, big bad thing!”

but this night I refuse.

“go to sleep,” I say, “and

in the morning

we'll check everything out.”

I can feel her rigid

beside me

listening to the sounds of the

night but I am soon

asleep.

I dream that I can fly.

I flap my arms and I can fly gracefully

through the air.

below me men and women are running.

they curse me and throw objects.

they want me to come down.

they want my box of matches,

my camera and my

car keys.

but what does she want?