“Now I’m happy … but …”
Then he spread his hands apart and opened his palms upward …
I told him about my fear of lines. He gave me a standing prescription for Librium.
Then I got a nest of boils on my ass. I was in agony. They tied me with leather straps, these fellows can do anything they want with you, they gave me a local and strapped my ass. I turned my head and looked at my Doctor and said, “Is there any chance of me changing my mind?”
There were three faces looking down at me. His and two others. Him to cut. Her to supply cloths. The third to stick needles.
“You can’t change your mind,” said the doctor, and he rubbed his hands and grinned and began …
The last time I saw him it had something to do with wax in my ears. I could see his lips moving, I tried to understand, but I couldn’t hear. I could tell by his eyes and his face that it was hard times for him all over again, and I nodded.
It was warm. I was a bit dizzy and I thought, well, yes, he’s a fine fellow but why doesn’t he let me tell him about my problems, this isn’t fair, I have problems too, and I have to pay him.
Eventually my doctor realized I was deaf. He got something that looked like a fire extinguisher and jammed it into my ears. Later he showed me huge pieces of wax … it was the wax, he said. And he pointed down into a bucket. It looked, really, like refried beans.
I got up from the table and paid him and I left. I still couldn’t hear anything. I didn’t feel particularly bad or good and I wondered what ailment I would bring him next, what he would do about it, what he would do about his 17-year-old daughter who was in love with another woman and who was going to marry the woman, and it occurred to me that everybody suffered continually, including those who pretended they didn’t. It seemed to me that this was quite a discovery. I looked at the newsboy and I thought, hmmmm, hmmmm, and I looked at the next person to pass and I thought hmmmm, hmmmm, hmmmmmm, and at the traffic signal by the hospital a new black car turned the corner and knocked down a pretty young girl in a blue mini dress, and she was blond and had blue ribbons in her hair, and she sat up in the street in the sun and the scarlet ran from her nose.
—SOUTH OF NO NORTH
one for the shoeshine man
the balance is preserved by the snails climbing the
Santa Monica cliffs;
the luck is in walking down Western Avenue
and having the girls in a massage
parlor holler at you, “Hello, Sweetie!”
the miracle is having 5 women in love
with you at the age of 55,
and the goodness is that you are only able
to love one of them.
the gift is having a daughter more gentle
than you are, whose laughter is finer
than yours.
the peace comes from driving a
blue 67 Volks through the streets like a
teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You
Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum
of the rebuilt motor
as you needle through traffic.
the grace is being able to like rock music,
symphony music, jazz …
anything that contains the original energy of
joy.
and the probability that returns
is the deep blue low
yourself flat upon yourself
within the guillotine walls
angry at the sound of the phone
or anybody’s footsteps passing;
but the other probability—
the lilting high that always follows—
makes the girl at the checkstand in the
supermarket look like
Marilyn
like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover
like the girl in high school that we
all followed home.
there is that which helps you believe
in something else besides death:
somebody in a car approaching
on a street too narrow,
and he or she pulls aside to let you
by, or the old fighter Beau Jack
shining shoes
after blowing the entire bankroll
on parties
on women
on parasites,
humming, breathing on the leather,
working the rag
looking up and saying:
“what the hell, I had it for a
while, that beats the
other.”
I am bitter sometimes
but the taste has often been
sweet. it’s only that I’ve
feared to say it. it’s like
when your woman says,
“tell me you love me,” and
you can’t.
if you see me grinning from
my blue Volks
running a yellow light
driving straight into the sun
I will be locked in the
arms of a
crazy life
thinking of trapeze artists
of midgets with big cigars
of a Russian winter in the early 40’s
of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil
of an old waitress bringing me an extra
cup of coffee and laughing
as she does so.
the best of you
I like more than you think.
the others don’t count
except that they have fingers and heads
and some of them eyes
and most of them legs
and all of them
good and bad dreams
and a way to go.
justice is everywhere and it’s working
and the machine guns and the frogs
and the hedges will tell you
so.
5
my wrists are rivers
my fingers are words
the mockingbird
the mockingbird had been following the cat
all summer
mocking mocking mocking
teasing and cocksure;
the cat crawled under rockers on porches
tail flashing
and said something angry to the mockingbird
which I didn’t understand.
yesterday the cat walked calmly up the driveway
with the mockingbird alive in its mouth,
wings fanned, beautiful wings fanned and flopping,
feathers parted like a woman’s legs,
and the bird was no longer mocking,
it was asking, it was praying
but the cat
striding down through centuries
would not listen.
I saw it crawl under a yellow car
with the bird
to bargain it to another place.
summer was over.
Less Delicate Than the Locust
“Balls,” he said, “I’m tired of painting. Let’s go out. I’m tired of the stink of oils, I’m tired of being great. I’m tired of waiting to the. Let’s go out.”
“Go out where?” she asked.
“Anywhere. Eat, drink, see.”
“Jorg,” she said, “what will I do when you the?”
“You will eat, sleep, fuck, piss, shit, clothe yourself, walk around and bitch.”
“I need security.”
“We all do.”
“I mean, we’re not married. I won’t even be able to collect your insurance.”
“That’s all right, don’t worry about it. Besides, you don’t believe in marriage, Arlene.”
Arlene was sitting in the pink chair reading the afternoon newspaper. “You say five thousand women want to sleep with you. Where does that leave me?”
“Five thousand and one.”
“You think I can’t get another man?”
“No, there’s no problem for you. You can get another man in three minutes
.”
“You think I need a great painter?”
“No, you don’t. A good plumber would do.”
“Yes, as long as he loved me.”
“Of course. Put on your coat. Let’s go out.”
They came down the stairway from the top loft. All around were cheap, roach-filled rooms, but nobody seemed to be starving: they always seemed to be cooking things in large pots and sitting around, smoking, cleaning their fingernails, drinking cans of beer or sharing a tall blue bottle of white wine, screaming at each other or laughing, or farting, belching, scratching or asleep in front of the tv. Not many people in the world had very much money but the less money they had the better they seemed to live. Sleep, clean sheets, food, drink and hemorrhoid ointment were their only needs. And they always left their doors a bit open.
“Fools,” said Jorg as they walked down the stairway, “they twaddle away their lives and clutter up mine.”
“Oh, Jorg,” Arlene sighed. “You just don’t like people, do you?”
Jorg arched an eyebrow at her, didn’t answer. Arlene’s response to his feelings for the masses was always the same—as if not loving the people revealed an unforgivable shortcoming of soul. But she was an excellent fuck and pleasant to have around—most of the time.
They reached the boulevard and walked along, Jorg with his red and white beard and broken yellow teeth and bad breath, purple ears, frightened eyes, stinking torn overcoat and white ivory cane. When he felt worst he felt best. “Shit,” he said, “everything shits until it dies.”
Arlene bobbled her ass, making no secret of it, and Jorg pounded the pavement with his cane, and even the sun looked down and said, Ho ho. Finally they reached the old dingy building where Serge lived. Jorg and Serge had both been painting for many years but it was not until recently that their work sold for more than pig farts. They had starved together, now they were getting famous separately. Jorg and Arlene entered the hotel and began climbing the stairway. The smell of iodine and frying chicken was in the halls. In one room somebody was getting fucked and making no secret of it. They climbed to the top loft and Arlene knocked. The door popped open and there was Serge. “Peek-a-boo!” he said. Then he blushed. “Oh, sorry … come in.”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” asked Jorg.
“Sit down. I thought it was Lila …”
“You play peek-a-boo with Lila?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Serge, you’ve got to get rid of that girl, she’s destroying your mind.”
“She sharpens my pencils.”
“Serge, she’s too young for you.”
“She’s 30.”
“And you’re 60. That’s 30 years.”
“Thirty years is too much?”
“Of course.”
“How about 20?” asked Serge, looking at Arlene.
“Twenty years is acceptable. Thirty years is obscene.”
“Why don’t you both get women your own age?” asked Arlene.
They both looked at her. “She likes to make little jokes,” said Jorg. “Yes,” said Serge, “she is funny. Come on, look, I’ll show you what I’m doing …”
They followed him into the bedroom. He took off his shoes and lay flat on the bed. “See? Like this? All the comforts.” Serge had his paint brushes on long handles and he painted on a canvas fastened to the ceiling. “It’s my back. Can’t paint ten minutes without stopping. This way I go on for hours.”
“Who mixes your colors?”
“Lila. I tell her, ‘Stick it in the blue. Now a bit of green.’ She’s quite good. Eventually I might even let her work the brushes, too, and I’ll just lay around and read magazines.”
Then they heard Lila coming up the stairway. She opened the door, came across the front room and entered the bedroom. “Hey,” she said, “I see the old fuck’s painting.”
“Yeah,” said Jorg, “he claims you hurt his back.”
“I said no such tiling.”
“Let’s go out and eat,” said Arlene. Serge moaned and got up.
“Honest to Christ,” said Lila. “He just lays around like a sick frog most of the time.”
“I need a drink,” said Serge. “I’ll snap back.”
They went down to the street together and moved toward The Sheep’s Tick. Two young men in their mid-20’s ran up. They had on turtleneck sweaters. “Hey, you guys are the painters, Jorg Swenson and Serge Maro!”
“Get the hell out of the way!” said Serge.
Jorg swung his ivory cane. He got the shorter of the young men right on the knee. “Shit,” the young man said, “you’ve broken my leg!”
“I hope so,” said Jorg. “Maybe you’ll learn some damned civility!”
They moved on toward The Sheep’s Tick. As they entered a buzzing arose from the diners. The headwaiter immediately rushed up, bowing and waving menus and speaking endearments in Italian, French and Russian.
“Look at that long, black hair in his nostrils,” said Serge. “Truly sickening!”
“Yes,” said Jorg, and then he shouted at the waiter, “HIDE YOUR NOSE!”
“Five bottles of your best wine!” screamed Serge, as they sat down at the best table.
The headwaiter vanished. “You two are real assholes,” said Lila.
Jorg ran his hand up her leg. “Two living immortals are allowed certain indiscretions.”
“Get your hand off my pussy, Jorg.”
“It’s not your pussy. It’s Serge’s pussy.”
“Get your hand off Serge’s pussy or I’ll scream.”
“My will is weak.”
She screamed. Jorg removed his hand. The headwaiter came toward them with the wagon and bucket of chilled wine. He rolled it up, bowed and pulled one cork. He filled Jorg’s glass. Jorg drained it. “It’s shit, but O.K. Open the bottles!”
“All the bottles?”
“All the bottles, asshole, and be quick about it!”
“He’s clumsy,” said Serge. “Look at him. Shall we dine?”
“Dine?” said Arlene. “All you guys do is drink. I don’t think I’ve seen either of you eat more than a soft-boiled egg.”
“Get out of my sight, coward,” Serge said to the waiter.
The headwaiter vanished.
“You guys shouldn’t talk to people that way,” said Lila.
“We’ve paid our dues,” said Serge.
“You’ve got no right,” said Arlene.
“I suppose not,” said Jorg, “but it’s interesting.”
“People don’t have to take that crap,” said Lila.
“People accept what they accept,” said Jorg. “They accept far worse.”
“It’s your paintings they want, that’s all,” said Arlene.
“We are our paintings,” said Serge.
“Women are stupid,” said Jorg.
“Be careful,” said Serge. “They also are capable of terrible acts of vengeance …”
They sat for a couple of hours drinking the wine.
“Man is less delicate than the locust,” said Jorg finally.
“Man is the sewer of the universe,” said Serge.
“You guys are really assholes,” said Lila.
“Sure are,” said Arlene.
“Let’s switch tonight,” said Jorg. “I’ll fuck your pussy and you fuck mine.”
“Oh no,” said Arlene, “none of that.”
“Right,” said Lila.
“I feel like painting now,” said Jorg. “I’m bored with drinking.”
“I feel like painting, too,” said Serge.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Jorg.
“Listen,” said Lila, “you guys haven’t paid the bill yet.”
“Bill?” screamed Serge. “You don’t think we are going to pay money for this rotgut?”
“Let’s go,” said Jorg.
As they rose, the headwaiter came up with the bill.
“This rotgut stinks,” screamed Serge, jumping up and down. “I would never
ask anyone to pay for stuff like this! I want you to know the proof is in the piss!”
Serge grabbed a half-full bottle of the wine, ripped open the waiter’s shirt and poured the wine over his chest. Jorg held his ivory cane like a sword. The headwaiter looked confused. He was a beautiful young man with long fingernails and an expensive apartment. He was studying chemistry and had once won second prize in an opera competition. Jorg swung his cane and caught the waiter, hard, just below the left ear. The waiter turned very white and swayed. Jorg hit him three more times in the same spot and he dropped.
They walked out together, Serge, Jorg, Lila and Arlene. They were all drunk but there was a certain stature about them, something unique. They got out the door and went down the street.
A young couple seated at a table near the door had watched the entire proceedings. The young man looked intelligent, only a rather large mole near the end of his nose marred the effect. His girl was fat but lovable in a dark blue dress. She had once wanted to be a nun.
“Weren’t they magnificent?” asked the young man.
“They were assholes,” said the girl.
The young man waved for a third bottle of wine. It was going to be another difficult night.
—HOT WATER MUSIC
junk
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
it’s relief and foodstamps and
Medi-Cal.
men are usable objects
toward the fix.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow.
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer and
tequila
which I have purchased.
I sit with them.
I wait on my fix:
I am a poetry junkie.
they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage.
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked cock.
T.S. Eliot worked a teller’s cage.
Run With the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader Page 35
