What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (8 page)

dirty little bugger

about 10 years old

he sits on a box near the newsboy

he has nothing to do

but sit on that box near the newsboy

and watch

and he watches me

as I buy a newspaper

and then he runs in after me

as I go into the liquor store

and he stands there watching as I pay for a

6-pack,

dirty little bugger.

I interest him; he sickens me.

we are natural enemies.

I leave him in there.

fuck that newsboy too,

at 55 he looks like a cantaloupe.

why is it such a problem to buy

a newspaper and a few

beers?

my daughter looked like a young Katharine Hepburn

at the grammar school Christmas presentation.

she stood there with them

smiling, shining, singing

in the long dress I had bought for her.

she looks like Katharine Hepburn, I told her mother

who sat on my left.

she looks like Katharine Hepburn, I told my girlfriend

who sat on my right.

my daughter's grandmother was another seat away;

I didn't tell her anything.

I never did like Katharine Hepburn's acting,

but I liked the way she looked,

class, you know,

somebody you could talk to in bed for

an hour or two before going to

sleep.

I can see that my daughter is going to be a

beautiful woman.

someday when I am old

she'll probably bring the bedpan with a

kindly smile.

and she'll probably marry a truckdriver with a

heavy tread

who bowls every Thursday night

with the boys.

well, all that doesn't matter.

what matters is now.

her grandmother is a hawk of a woman.

her mother is a psychotic liberal and lover of life.

her father is an asshole.

my daughter looked like a young Katharine Hepburn.

after the Christmas presentation

we went to McDonald's and ate, and fed the sparrows.

Christmas was a week away.

we were less concerned about that than nine-tenths of the town.

that's class, we both have class.

to ignore Christmas takes a special wisdom

but Happy New Year to

you all.

listening to Bruckner now.

I relate very much to him.

he just misses

by so little.

I ache for his dead

guts.

if we all could only move it

up one notch

when necessary.

but we can't.

I remember my fight in the

rain

that Saturday night in the

alley with

Harry Tabor.

his eyes were rolling in

that great dumb

head,

one more punch

and he was mine—

I missed.

or the beautiful woman

who visited me one

night,

who sat on my couch

and told me that she was

“yours, a gift…”

but I poured whiskey,

pranced about

bragged about

myself

and finally

after returning from the

kitchen

I found her

gone.

so many near misses.

so many other near misses.

oh, Bruckner, I know!

I am listening to Bruckner

now and

I ache for his dead

guts

and for my living

soul.

we all need

something we can do well,

you know.

like scuba diving or

opening the morning

mail.

it's a farce, the great actors, the great poets, the great

statesmen, the great painters, the great composers, the

great loves,

it's a farce, a farce, a farce,

history and the recording of it,

forget it, forget it.

you must begin all over again.

throw all that out.

all of them out

you are alone with now.

look at your fingernails.

touch your nose.

begin.

the day flings itself upon

you.

to be writing poetry at the age of 50

like a schoolboy,

surely, I must be crazy;

racetracks and booze and arguments

with the landlord;

watercolor paintings under the bed

with dirty socks;

a bathtub full of trash

and a garbage can lined with

underground newspapers;

a record player that doesn't work,

a radio that doesn't work,

and I don't work—

I sit between 2 lamps,

bottle on the floor

begging a 20-year-old typewriter

to say something, in a way and

well enough

so they won't confuse me

with the more comfortable

practitioners;

this is certainly not a game for

flyweights or Ping-Pong players—

all arguments to the contrary.

—but once you get the taste, it's good to get your

teeth into

words. I forgive those who

can't quit.

I forgive myself.

this is where the
action
is,

this is the hot horse that

comes in.

there's no grander fort

no better flag

no better woman

no better way; yet there's much else to say—

there seems as much hell in it as

magic; death gets as close as any lover has,

closer,

you know it like your right hand

like a mark on the wall

like your daughter's name,

you know it like the face on the corner

newsboy,

and you sit there with flowers and houses

with dogs and death and a boil on the neck,

you sit down and do it again and again

the machinegun chattering by the window

as the people walk by

as you sit in your undershirt,

50, on an indelicate March evening,

as their faces look in and help you write the next 5

lines,

as they walk by and say,

“the old man in the window, what's the deal with

him?”

—fucked by the muse, friends,

thank you—

and I roll a cigarette with one hand

like the old bum

I am, and then thank and curse the gods

alike,

lean forward

drag on the cigarette

think of the good fighters

like poor Hem, poor Beau Jack, poor Sugar Ray,

poor Kid Gavilan, poor Villon, poor Babe, poor

Hart Crane, poor

me, hahaha.

I lean forward,

redhot ash

falling on my wrists,

teeth into the word.

crazy at the age of 50,

I send it

home.

I found myself in middle age

working a 12 hour night,

night after night,

year after year

and somehow there seemed to be

no way out.

I was drained, empty and so

were my co-workers.

we huddled together

under the whip,

under intolerable conditions,

and many of us were

fearful of being

fired

for there was nothing left

for us.

our bodies were worn,

our spirits whipped.

there was a sense

of unreality.

one becomes so tired one

becomes so dazed,

that there is confusion and

anguish mixed in with the

deadliness.

I think that, too,

kept some of us working there.

I wasted over a decade of

12 hour nights.

I can't explain why I

remained.

cowardice, probably.

then one night I stood up

and said,

“I'm finished, I'm leaving

this job now!”

“what? what? what?”

asked my comrades.

“do you know what the

hell you're doing?”

“where will you go?”

“come back!”

“you're crazy! what will

you do?”

I walked down the rows

of them, all those faces.

I walked down the aisle

past rows and rows of

them,

all the faces looking.

“he's crazy!”

then I was in the elevator

riding down.

first floor and out.

I walked into the street,

I walked along the street,

then I turned and looked

at the towering

building, four stories high,

I saw the lights in the

windows,

I felt the presence of

those 3,000 people

in there.

then I turned and walked away

into the night.

and my life was touched by

magic.

and it still

is.

plants which easily winter kills,

and the hair on the eyelids of a

horse is called

brill,

and

plants which easily winter kills

are

Campanula medium

Digitalis purpurea

Early-flowered Chrysanthemums

Salvia patens

and

Shasta Daisy.

the United Daughters of the Confederacy was

founded in

Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 10,

1894.

the male heart weighs 10 to 12

ounces

and the female

8 to 10 ounces,

and in the 14th century

one-third of the population of England died

of the Black Death

which they say was caused by

unsanitary conditions.

and be careful of your style:

bad: he gave all of his

property to

charity.

better:

he gave all his property

to

charity.

best:

he kept all his

property.

the superficial area of the earth is

196,950,000 sq. miles

and the earth weighs

6,592,000,000,000,000,000,000 tons,

and my child said to me,

“thinking is not the same as

knowing.”

Jesus Christ died at the age of

33 and contrary to popular belief

the sawfish does not attack

whales.