mattered.
to hell with food, to hell with
the rent
the next bottle solved
everything
and if you could get two or
three or four bottles ahead
then life was really good.
it got to be a habit,
a way of living.
where were we going to get that next
bottle?
it made us inventive, crafty,
daring.
sometimes we even got stupid
and took a job for 3 or 4 days
or a week.
all we wanted to do was sit
around and talk about
books and literature
and pour down the
wine.
it was the only thing that made any
sense to us.
in addition, of course,
we had our adventures:
crazy girlfriends, fights, the
desperate landladies, the
police.
we thrived on the drinking and
the madness and the
conversation.
while other people hit time
clocks
we often didn’t even know
what day or week it was.
there was this small gang of us,
all very young, it changed continually
as some members just
vanished, others were drafted,
some died in the war
but new recruits always
arrived.
it was the Club from Hell
and I was Chairman of the
Board.
* * *
now I drink alone in my
quiet room on the
second floor facing the San Pedro
harbor.
am I the very last of the
last?
old ghosts float in and out of
this room.
I only half-remember their faces.
they watch me, their tongues
hanging out.
I lift my glass to them.
I pick up a cigar, stick it into
the flame of my cigarette
lighter.
I draw deeply
and there is a flare of blue
smoke as
in the harbor
a boat blasts its
horn.
it all seems a good show, as I wonder again
as I always have:
what am I doing
here?
UNLOADING THE GOODS
it was after
my 9-hour shift as a stock boy
wearing a green smock
and pushing my wagon full of goods
up and down the crowded aisles
listening to the complaints
of the neurotic salesgirls
and angry customers
that I returned home to our place
and she was gone
again.
I went down to the corner bar
and there she sat.
she looked up as all the men
edged away from her.
“take it easy now, Hank,” said the barkeep.
I sat down next to her.
“how’s it going?” I asked.
“listen,” she said, “I haven’t been here that
long.”
“I’ll have a beer,” I told the
barkeep.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“for what?” I asked.
“this is a nice place. I
don’t blame you for coming here.”
“what is it with you?” she asked.
“please don’t act crazy.”
I drank my beer slowly.
then I put the glass down and walked out.
it was a perfect night.
I’d left her where I had first
found her.
even though her clothes were in my closet
and she’d be back for them
it was the end
I was making it the end.
and I went into the next bar
sat down and ordered a beer
knowing
that what I once thought would be hard
was really very easy.
I got the beer and drank it
and it tasted far better
than any beer
I had had during
the two long years since we
first met.
SARATOGA HOT WALKER
sometimes when I’m standing around feeling good
it will happen
it does happen again and again
somebody will come up to me and say,
“hey, I know you!”
they will say this with some
excitement and pleasure,
and then I’ll tell them,
“no, you have me confused with
someone else,”
but they’ll go on to insist
that I can’t fool them:
I was a desk clerk at this vacation
resort in Florida,
or I was a hot walker at
Saratoga, or I used to run numbers in
Philly,
or they saw me play a part in some
non-descript movie.
this makes me smile.
it pleases me.
I like to be seen as a
regular old guy,
a gentle member of the race,
a good old guy still struggling
along,
but I must then explain to them that
they are wrong about who they think I am
and then I walk away
leaving them somewhat confused and
suspicious.
the strange thing is that when I’m
Standing around
not feeling good
worried about trivialities
scratching at minor wrongs
nobody ever comes up to me
thinking that I am
someone else.
the mob knows more than you
suspect
about
off and
on,
dead or
alive.
we change each moment
for good or ill
as time passes
and they
(like you and me)
prefer the up times
the light in the eye
the flash of lightning
behind the mountain
because as far as is known
if despair finally comes to
stay
nobody is ever mistaken
for someone else;
so
as long as they
continue to walk up
to me
and confuse me with someone
truly alive
I can hope
that in some real sense
I must be truly living
too.
THE SIXTIES?
I don’t remember
much
about the sixties
I was working
12 hours a night
in the post office
but I do remember
one day
a friend of mine
took me to his friend’s
house.
it was a strange-
looking house—
they had
painted it
red yellow green
and blue.
the colors
ran in every
direction and also
ran together—
very
psychedelic.
inside there were
many people
lying around.
they didn’t move
much.
they appeared to
be asleep
although
it was only
one p.m.
“these are the
beautiful people,”
my friend told
me.
“yeah,” I said,
“some of the women
look
pretty good.”
I was feeling
smart and walked
over to the
best looker.
she had long
blonde hair
and an
almost perfect
body.
she was
stretched out
on a couch
near the
fireplace.
I shook
her.
“come on,
baby, let’s
fuck!”
“peace, brother,”
she said,
“some other
time.”
we walked on
through
the house.
I asked my
friend,
“how can all
these people
sleep
with all that
loud music
playing?”
he laughed,
“you’re a real
cube.”
we left and
went back to
his house.
we sat and
talked
while his
wife created
ceramic art
in the
kitchen.
I slept on
their couch
that night
and left
in
the morning.
I saw
my friend
again
about
three weeks
later.
driving over
I passed
the house
where
I had seen
the blonde
on
the couch.
now the
house was painted
grey,
grey and
white.
I went
to
my friend’s
house.
his wife was
in the kitchen
working
on collages.
after
a few drinks
I asked
him,
“what happened
to the house
down
the street?”
“they were
too obvious,”
he said,
“they got
busted.”
“that grey
and white
paint job,”
I said,
“it’s hardly
as nice.”
“that’s true,”
he said.
we looked at
each other.
“they should
have painted
it
grey and
blue,”
I told
him.
EXPERIENCE
she claimed to be
worldly
to have traveled
everywhere
was said to have known
many famous men and even
slept with some of
them.
really she had
(she said)
done it
all.
after dinner
at a neighborhood Japanese restaurant
I asked her
if she would care for a
drink.
she ran her eyes
over the menu
then said she guessed
she’d have the
sake
which I
ordered.
and when the drink
arrived
she picked it
up
sipped
then quickly set it
down
looking disgusted.
“what’s the matter?”
I asked.
she replied,
“why is this
stuff
hot?”
FAME AT LAST
I turn on the landing lights and head for the
runway where the crowd waits.
what a fucking farce
but I’ve got to play it out.
the plane rolls to a stop.
I step down into the crowd,
mikes in face, cameras on.
I answer questions
on the run.
really can’t be bothered, you know.
I shove through.
they make you feel important.
Jesus, don’t they have anything else to do?
a young girl screams my name.
I give her the finger.
there, that’ll hold her.
where was that whore when I was
living on boiled weenies?
I finally fight my way to the limo.
couple of babes in there.
well, what the hell.
somebody else in there.
forget his name.
he hands me a drink.
now, that’s better.
I tell the driver, “get the fuck out
of here!”
we move out.
the guy who handed me the drink
says, “we got you booked on Letterman
tomorrow night.”
I drain my drink.
“fuck that, I’m not going!”
“but it’s national tv!”
“fuck ’em! fix me another drink!”
we are on the freeway then,
going somewhere.
my place? a hotel? I don’t know.
one of the babes asks me a
stupid question.
I don’t bother to answer.
everybody’s stupid, it’s a stupid, stupid
world.
I’m all alone.
I get the second drink, slam it down.
“stop the car!” I yell at the
chauffeur, “I want to drive!”
“but, sir, we’re on the freeway!”
“stop the fucking car!”
nobody says anything,
the babes or the guy talking about
national tv.
the chauffeur works his way to
the shoulder, parks it, gets out,
opens the door.
I climb out.
“you,” I tell him, “sit between the
whores!”
he does as I say.
I get in front, put it in drive and
slide into traffic.
it’s been a long hard month.
I open the limo up, real power, it’s
cool.
“somebody fix me another
drink!” I yell back at them.
it’s been a long month, a long
one.
I’ve got to
unwind!
doesn’t anybody else realize what it’s like to
be alone at the
top?
PARTY OF NINE
“Hitchcock, party of nine!”
someone shouted.
and here they came, my god,
some with zippers open, others
with their shirts hanging out,
coats flung over their shoulders,
grinning and belching, nine fellows
out for a good time!
they sat down and began
beating on the table demanding
drinks and while the pounding
was going on, one of the men
made a crude remark
to the waitress, must
have been funny for they all started
LAUGHING, a couple of them nearly falling
>
off their chairs.
then some of them got up,
began grabbing drinks from nearby tables
to the astonishment of
the other patrons,
gulped the drinks down,
and then one of them began a striptease;
disrobing as the others
applauded
he stripped quickly to his
red and blue shorts.
I mean, these fellows were determined to have
a GOOD TIME!
some of the other
diners began shouting at
them:
“ASSHOLES!”
“SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!”
“GO SOME PLACE ELSE!”
but they didn’t seem to hear as
their drinks arrived.
then they started yelling their
orders at the waiter:
“I’LL HAVE ROAST LAMB AND
APPLESAUCE!”
“I’LL HAVE THE GRILLED TROUT!”
“I’LL HAVE YOUR ASS ON A PLATTER!”
“I’LL HAVE …”
as the police suddenly arrived the fellow in
red and blue shorts rose and said,
“what’s the matter, officer?
we’re only having fun!
what the hell’s wrong?”
“yeah,” said one of the others, “what the
hell’s wrong?
we’re only having fun.”
then the lights went out.
a woman screamed.
chairs scraped on the floor
as people began to leave their tables.
outside, sirens were approaching.
the party of nine
ran back outside to the parking lot,
jumped into their cars and gunned them to
the exits.
the police couldn’t tell who was who,
who was in what car.
red and blue shorts
was one of the first out in a yellow
convertible.
the officers managed to stop a few cars, all the wrong
ones.
the restaurant, one of the very best in town, took
a huge financial and public relations hit.
it was one of those special places
in the better part of town
where the famous, the talented and the rich
preferred to dine
and where they could
on occasion
let off a little
steam.
HE SHOWED ME HIS BACK
I had worked there 14 years, mostly
on the night shift, eleven-and-one-half
hours a night.
one day out at the track this fellow
walked up to me.
“hey, man,” he said to me, “how are you?”
“hello,” I answered.
I didn’t remember him,
there had been 3 or 4 thousand of us working
together in that building.
“I wondered what happened to you,”
he went on, “did you retire?”
“no, I quit,” I told him.
“you quit? then what’d you
do?”
“I wrote some books.
I got lucky.”
without a further word he turned
and walked off
he thought it was bullshit.
well, maybe it was,
but at least it was my bullshit, not
his.
New Poems Book 3 Page 12
