this Peter the bookstore
owner
came around and began
crying (yes, he actually
shed tears):
“Hank hurt me! he
HURT me! I was only
FOOLING!”
I heard cries of dismay
from around the
room:
“you’re a real bastard,
Chinaski!”
“Peter sells your books, he
displays them in the
window!”
“Peter LOVES you!”
“O.K.,” I said, “everybody
out! FAST!”
sure enough, they filed
out
sharing their
anger and disgust
with one
another.
and
I locked the
door
then
put out the
lights
got myself a
beer
and
sat there
in the dark
drinking
alone.
and
I liked that
so
much
that
that’s the way
I continued to
live
from then
on.
there were no more
parties
and
after that
the writing got much
better
everything got much
better
because:
you’ve got to
get rid of
false friends and
bloodsuckers first
before they
destroy
you.
THE 60’S
I don’t remember much about them
except you’d look and some guy
might be wearing a headdress of Indian
feathers.
everybody was covered with beads
and were passing joints.
they stretched around on comfortable rugs and
didn’t do anything.
I don’t know how they made the rent.
the woman I was living with was
always telling me, “I’m going to a
Love-In!”
“all right,” I’d tell her.
she’d come back and say something
like, “I met this BEAUTIFUL BLACK
MAN!”
or, “we made the cops smile!
I gave one a FLOWER!”
I seemed to be the only person with
an 8-hour job.
and there were always people
coming through the door and raiding
my refrigerator for food and beer.
“WE SHARE!” the woman I lived with
told me, “WE SHARE OUR LOVE!”
a guy would stick his face into mine.
drunk on my beer, he’d scream:
“YOU OUGHTA SEE THE YELLOW
SUBMARINE!”
“what’s that?” I asked.
“THE BEATLES, MAN, THE
BEATLES!”
I thought he meant “beetles.”
then there was somebody called
WAVY GRAVY.
they even talked me into going on
an LSD trip.
I found it to be stupid.
“you failed,” they told me, “you failed,
you didn’t open up.”
“Peace!” I said, “Peace!”
then, I don’t know, all at once
the 60’s seemed to be
over.
almost everybody vanished just like
that.
you’d see a few of the leftovers
now and then
down at Venice Beach,
standing around on corners,
sitting on benches
looking really washed-out,
with very vacant stares,
somehow astonished
at the turn of events.
they slept in cars,
stole what they could
and demanded handouts.
I don’t know where all the others
went.
I think they got suits and ties
and went looking for
the 8-hour job.
the 70’s had arrived.
and that’s when I dropped out.
and I had the whole place
all to
myself.
THE WOULD-BE HORSEPLAYER
raining, raining, raining.
has been for days.
I have 9 cats, the rain drives them crazy
and then they drive me crazy.
last night at 3:30 one of them began
scratching to get out.
rain and all, he wanted out.
I put him out.
went back to sleep.
then at 4 a.m. the female cat who sleeps in
the bathroom began
mewing.
I sat with her for 5 minutes to calm her down,
then went back to bed.
at 5 a.m. one of the male cats
began scratching.
he had gotten into the closet, found
a bag of cat food, knocked it over and
was trying to claw it open.
I picked him up and put him outside.
I went back to bed and couldn’t sleep.
at 8 a.m. I opened a window and a door so
some cats could get back in and some
could get out.
I slept until 10 a.m. when I got up and fed
all 9 cats.
it was time to get ready for the racetrack,
my daily routine.
I stood at the window and watched the rain
still coming down.
it was 20 miles to the track via the freeway and
through a dangerous area—for whites and
maybe blacks too.
I felt sleep deprived so I decided to go back
to bed.
I did, went right to sleep,
and I dreamt.
I dreamt I was at the racetrack.
I was at the betting window, calling my numbers.
it was raining hard.
I was at the racetrack.
I kept betting and I think I cashed some tickets
but I never saw a horse or a jockey or a horse race.
then I awakened.
it was still raining.
my wife (who is an insomniac) was
sleeping peacefully next to me and there were
4 cats sleeping on the bed and
one on the floor.
we were all sleep deprived.
I looked at the clock: 12:30, too late to make
the track.
I turned on my right side, looked out the
window.
it was still raining, heartlessly,
hopefully, meanly, grossly, continually,
beautifully.
rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.
soon I was asleep again and the world continued to do
very well without
me.
THE NIGHT RICHARD NIXON SHOOK MY HAND
I was up there on the platform,
ready to begin when
up walked Richard Nixon
(or his double)
with that familiar
glazed smile on his face.
he approached me, reached out and
before I could react he
shook my hand.
what is he doing? I thought.
I was about to give him a verbal
dressing down
but before I could do so
he suddenly faded away
and all I could see were the
lights shining in my eyes and
the audience waiting down
there.
m
y hand was shaking as
I reached out and poured myself
a glass of vodka from the pitcher.
I must be giving this poetry reading
in hell, I thought.
it was hell: I drained the glass
but the contents somehow had turned into
water.
I began to read the first poem:
“I wandered lonely as a cloud.”
Wordsworth!
THROWING AWAY THE ALARM CLOCK
my father always said, “early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise.”
it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.
my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.
taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.
now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
the world but I’ve avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
people
one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.
PRETENDERS
nothing is worse than
a hopelessly untalented
entertainer.
unlike the talented
they have boundless
exuberance and no
self-doubt.
luckily, for us,
we seldom encounter
one of them
except
sometimes
at small parties
or as entertainers
in
cheap cafes.
you don’t have to actually
go to hell
to know what hell must be
like: just looking
at
and listening to
one of them
gives you a
good
idea.
there seems to be
one simple undying
rule:
the worse the
talent
the more they
are sure
of
it.
$1.25 A GALLON
life can be vacant like the inside of
old shoes while dogs howl in the
rain.
sometimes a certain anger is necessary to
stay alive.
I drive into the gas station
in my ’67 Volks and
there’s a woman parked ahead of
me.
I honk
she looks back.
I honk again
make a motion with my hand
for her to get out and pour some
gas into her tin buggy. she looks
astonished.
it’s a cut-rate self-serve gas station
and
we all suffer the long lines of
merciless doom.
the attendant finally comes out and
handles her
affairs. she tells him about me:
I am a bastard—no style, no
decency.
I
look at her ass
decide I don’t like it
much. she looks at my face and
decides the same. as she
drives off I lift the
hood
grab the nozzle and think,
maybe she was out to fuck me;
I just didn’t feel in the mood
for it.
when the attendant walks up
I see by his face
that he felt the same way.
I pay, ask him directions
to Beverly Hills and drive off
into the sick drooping
pink sun.
FLOSS-JOB
that dental assistant in
Burbank
a few years
back
so dedicated
cleaning my teeth
leaning against
me
her large breasts
pressed against my arm and
shoulder
her eyes
looking into
mine
asking
“does this
hurt?”
I still think about
her golden breasts.
she probably told
her girlfriends about it
later,
laughing her ass
off:
“I turned-on this old
fuck.
Christ, it was like
raising the
dead.
his old dried dick
waving in the
air.
his rotting mouth
hoping for
one last kiss!”
yes, dear, it hurts
but our dumb peasant wedding
was greater than
you know.
A FRIENDLY PLACE
went into this sushi place to eat.
sat at the counter.
2 fellows to my left.
one of them asked me, “what’s
that beer you’re drinking?”
I told him.
he said that his beer was better,
that he’d buy me one.
“no thanks,” I said.
“how about a sake?”
“thank you very much, but no.”
“have you ever tried
octopus?”
“no.”
“here, try some of mine.”
“yeah, try some!” said his friend.
“thanks, but no.”
“no, here! here! try it!”
he put a piece on my plate.
I picked it up and began to chew.
it tasted like a piece of rubber.
“you like it?”
“it tastes like rubber.”
there was a pause, then
“we live on a boat,” said the nearest
speaker.
“in the harbor,” said the other.
“try some sake,” said the first.
“no, thanks.”
“you live on a boat?” the other
asked.
“no.”
“we bought you a beer anyway,” they said,
“here it is, try it.”
“ah, thank you.”
I took a hit.
“good, yes, thank you.”
“want some more octopus?”
“no thanks, you’re very kind.”
“we live on a boat,” the first said.
I continued eating.
“you live around here?” he
asked.
“yes.”
“where?”
“in town.”
“where in town?”
“near first and Bandini.”
“you know Peaches? she lives
on Bandini.”
“I know her, she gives loud parties.”
“she’s married to my brother.”
“oh, good.”
“Peaches is a great girl!”
“yeah.”
“I’m going to buy you a sake.”
“no, thanks.”
“how come?”
“I drink too much, I start to roll.”
“rock and roll?”
“no, just roll.”
“everybody comes to the parties on our
boat, but when
the food and booze are
gone, they leave.”
“they do?”
“yeah, then we gotta do all the clean
up ourselves!”
a long pause.
I continued eating, then said,
“well, listen, thanks for the beer,
I’ve got to go.”
“where you going?”
“home.”
“we’re having a party on the boat
tonight …”
“good.”
“what’d you say your name
was?”
“Hank,” I said.
“I’m Bob.”
“I’m Eddie.”
I walked around the counter to
pay.
then as I walked back to exit:
“don’t you want one for the
road?” Bob asked.
“no, thanks a lot, though.”
“see you around,” said Eddie.
“sure,” I said.
then I was outside.
I walked back to my car
thinking, well, anyhow,
now I can tell people that I
have eaten
octopus.
THE OLD COUPLE
about ten minutes before the last race they were walking
through the parking lot to their car, he walking in front
by a good four feet, his head turned back toward her
as he walked and talked.
“why did we have to sit in that crowded section?
I never want to sit there again! I couldn’t
concentrated!”
and she replied, “oh, shut up, Harry.”
he kept walking, talking with his head turned: “I TOLD you in advance
I wouldn’t be able to CONCENTRATE there!”
and she said,
“oh, go on, go on, you always make some
EXCUSE!”
he stopped.
she stopped. they stared at each
other.
“god damn it,” he said, “YOU take the car! I’m going to
take a taxi!”
and she said,
“now, don’t do anything FOOLISH, don’t be
STUPID!”
then they started walking again with the same four feet
of space between them.
in the distance
the call to post sounded for the last
race.
“who’d you bet in the
9th?” she asked.
he replied, “that’s MY own
god-damned
business!”
then I started the engine of my
car and could hear
no more.
WHAT?
I was already old and hadn’t made it
as a writer
when a young man sitting on my couch
asked me,
“what do you think of Huxley living up
in the Hollywood hills while you live down
here?”
“I don’t think anything about it,”
I told him.
“what do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean, I don’t think it has anything
to do with anything.”
now the young man who asked me
that question lives up in the hills
and I still live down here
and I still don’t think it has anything
to do with
New Poems Book 3 Page 3
