I’m afraid
to face
her.
you got any
wine?”
“one bottle.”
“can I have a
drink?”
I got the bottle
and put the
corkscrew to
the
cork.
Lou sat there
and rolled a
cigarette with
one
hand.
A View from the Quarter, March 12th, 1965:
we are in a terrible hurry to die
as large Negroes break the
pavement
our fingers tremble on dark
coffee cups
as this city
all the cities
lie spread-legged
dipped into with
beak,
I awaken to pull a shade
open
I awaken to black men and
white men and no
men—
they rape everything
they walk into churches and
churches burn down
they pet dogs and dogs heave
yellow saliva and
die
they buy paintings that they
don’t understand
they buy women that they
don’t understand
they buy everything and
what they can’t buy
they kill
their women approach me
they wiggle in the sacrament of
their flesh
they sway before me upon the towers
of their high-heels
the whole sum of them wanting
to make me scream
in some idiot’s glory
but I look again
and I know that they are
dead
that it is useless
and I cross the street
to buy a loaf of
bread
at night
the sweetest sound I hear is
the dripping of the
toilet
or some unemployed Jazzman
practicing his runs—
a wail of martyrdom to an
always
incomplete
self
we only pretend to live
while we wait on something
we wait on something
and look at diamond wrist watches
through plate glass windows
as a spider sucks the guts out of a
fly
we pay homage to Marshal Foch’s
granddaughter bending over a
tub of laundry,
we walk down St. Peter St.
hoping to find a
dime in the gutter
the dogs know us
the dogs know us
best
the Jazzman sends it home to
me through the blue glass of a
4 p.m. Friday
afternoon
he wants me to know how he
feels
as feet run over my
head
as the dead men suck in
spaghetti
as the dead men machinegun the
bridge
and in moments of rest
pray and drink
good scotch
I have watched the artists
rotting in their chairs
while the tourists took pictures
of an old iron railing not yet made
into guns
I have seen you, New Orleans,
I have seen you, New York,
Miami, Philly, Frisco, St. Louie,
L.A., Dago, Houston, and
most of the rest. I have
seen nothing. your best men are
drunks and your worst men are
locking them
up,
your best men are killers and
your worst men are
selling them
bullets
your best men die in alleys
under a sheet of paper
while your worst men
get statues in parks
for pigeons to shit upon for
centuries
the Jazzman stops. My god, it’s
quiet, that’s all I can say now!
it’s quiet. it’s quiet. let me think
if I feel like thinking and if
I don’t, mama, let me not
think.
4:26 p.m.
the Quarter
I look down on the floor—
a beer carton
busted open and empty
says
“Don’t litter!
Keep America
Beautiful!”
and like the Jazzman:
don’t wanta think
no more.
drink
the saddest bar I was ever
in was in New Orleans,
a place west of Canal
Street.
I still remember the
name of it
but for now
let’s just call it Bar
Zero.
it was across from
my room,
a mouse-infested
hole on the
second
floor.
I walked into Bar
Zero one night
around eleven
p.m.
and
asked for a
beer.
it took the bartender
an eternity to get it
to me.
the poor devil had
a club foot.
the people
sat at old round
wooden
tables.
the overhead lights
were glaringly
bright.
I was 20 years old,
not too keen on
living
and the place
immediately
brought me
down.
I looked over
at one table.
a lady was sitting
with 3
men.
the poor dear had
a glass eye.
it was bright green,
no sign of a
pupil.
the glass eye
gleamed silently
in the impossible
light.
the men seemed
almost as
one, they looked
so similar,
they were skeletal
with sagging
almost snow-white
skin.
their toothless mouths
hung open.
one of the men was
a bit younger:
a toothpick hung from
his mouth.
he was the liveliest of
that
group.
at another table
a man sat alone in
pin-striped
coveralls.
his beer glass had
tipped upon its
side.
there was a pool
of beer on the
table.
he was
still, he never
moved.
he didn’t appear
to be
breathing.
but
out of each
corner of his mouth
oozed two streams
of spittle.
the new spittle
slowly
ran over the old
spittle which had
dried white.
there was a total
silence.
I gulped my beer
down and ordered
another.
an old black and
white dog
sat in
the
corner.
his ribs showed
through
as he continued
to bite at his
body,
he never stopped,
the fleas were
eating him
alive.
his teeth were
gone,
so he just gummed
his flesh,
doing what he
could, a gallant
battle—
you heard the
continuous
sucking,
the only
sound in the
place.
then from somewhere
an old dame
appeared,
straight white
hair,
she was dressed
all in black,
looked a
hundred years
old,
she walked up,
stuck her face
into mine,
“HEY!” she
said.
some speech
at last.
“HEY!”
she attempted to
mount the bar
stool next to
mine,
wheezing.
I helped her up
on the
stool,
asked the barkeep
for two
beers.
she put the glass
to her lips, chugged most
of it down,
the rest running
down her face and
into her black
lap.
she made no
attempt to
dry herself.
I ordered her
another
beer.
then one of the
three men at the
other table began
singing:
“Somebody bet
on the bob-tailed
nag, I’m gonna
bet on the
grey!”
he sang the same
line three times,
then
stopped.
I asked for a glass
of wine.
when it finally
arrived
there was
dust floating
on the
top.
I drank it
down.
there was the
faint taste of
turpentine.
I ordered
another.
I drank there a couple
of hours.
nothing really
happened.
the bright lights
remained
bright and the
poor dog
kept
gumming at
himself.
“HEY!” the old dame
would yell
and I’d order her
another
beer.
then I remembered I
had something to
drink in my
room.
I got off my stool
and
walked
out.
I walked across
the street,
went to my room,
found the bottle,
sat in a chair,
in the dark,
drinking
and looking
across the street
and into
the bar.
the old dame
had not moved,
the people at the
tables were as
before
as the dog
continued to
chomp.
I heard the mice
moving around
behind me
in the
dark.
where before
they had always
irritated me
with their bold
sharing of my
space,
I now felt the
sound of them,
the presence
of them
almost
endearing.
I drank
from the
bottle
looking down
at the
bar.
I lived in that
room for two
more months
but only once
went back
to that
place.
as I walked
in
the man was
singing:
“Somebody bet
on the bob-tailed
nag, I’m gonna
bet on the
grey!”
and I turned
around and
walked out
and that was
that.
black and white
I must have checked in drunk
because I awakened in the
morning
in a small bed in an old
hotel room.
I wasn’t even sure of the
city.
I walked to the window
and looked down.
I was on one of the
upper floors.
the movement of the
people and the automobiles
down there
almost took on a dream-
like
quality.
I had a suicide complex
or I thought I had
one.
I tried to open the window,
it would make a great
jump
down.
the window wouldn’t open,
I’d have to try something
else.
there was a knock on the
door.
“come in,” I said.
it was a buxom black
maid.
I was standing in my
underwear.
she didn’t say
anything, just went about
changing the
sheets.
“what’s a good way to
kill yourself?” I asked
her.
“you want to kill yourself?”
she asked.
“yeah.”
“you look like you need
a drink.”
“yeah.”
“I’ll order something,” she
said.
she got on the
telephone.
I heard her ordering whiskey
and beer.
“what city is this?”
I asked.
“St. Louis.”
“you been working here
long?” I asked.
“2 years…”
she had a duster.
she was dusting things.
the duster was made up of
black and white
feathers.
“forget that,” I said.
“forget what?”
“dusting.”
she walked over with the
duster and dusted me
up the front.
then she dusted my
rear.
there was a knock at
the door.
I went to my pants and
got my
wallet.
I opened the door,
got the drinks, tipped
him a dollar.
“you sure this is
St. Louis?” I asked.
she took the tray,
uncapped the
whiskey, poured two glasses,
half full, added seltzer
water.
she uncapped 2 bottles
of beer.
we sat on the edge
of the bed,
clicked glasses, went for
>
it.
“the first one’s best,”
she said.
“damn right…”
we sat there drinking.
“don’t you have to work?”
I asked.
“what do you mean?”
“I mean, the rooms, don’t
you have to do the
rooms?”
“they won’t fire me.
listen, do you really want to
kill yourself?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“you’re not sure?”
“sometimes I’m more sure
than other times.”
“my sister killed herself.”
I poured 2 more drinks.
the clock radio said
10: 37 a.m.
“what do you do?”
she asked.
“I’m unemployed.”
“you ever worked?”
“many times.”
we sat there drinking.
sometimes she poured,
sometimes I did.
Betting on the Muse Page 5
