What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
Page 16
sometimes you die
sometimes you don’t.
as I drive past
the young man on the bus stop bench
I am comfortable in my automobile
I have money in two different banks
I own my own home
but he reminds me of my young self
and I want to help him
but I don’t know what to do.
today when I drove past again
he was gone
I suppose finally the world wasn’t
pleased with him being there.
the bench still sits there on the corner
advertising something.
computer class
sitting in a computer class,
first of two three-hour
sessions.
I am being sucked into the New
Age.
my wife is there too.
there are three others.
the computer-whiz-boy
whisks us through
our paces.
we each sit in front of
a computer
working our mouse,
not wanting to be
left out,
not wanting to seem
dumb,
not wanting to be
found out.
there is a desperation
in that room.
and besides, we’ve
paid for all
this.
“what!” says a nervous
blonde lady,
“how can I take notes?
I can’t keep up!”
“take mental
notes,” says
the computer-whiz-
boy.
he smiles.
the night envelops us as
we work
on.
once an impulse struck
me,
to leap up and
scream:
“shit! that’s enough!
I can’t handle
this!”
what stopped me
was that I knew that
it was all simple
enough,
it was only a matter
of learning the
routine.
the class actually
rolled on for an
extra hour.
at one rest break
everybody started
talking about
old television
programs which
pissed
me
off
but that finally
abated.
afterwards,
driving away in the
car
my wife asked me,
“well, did you
learn anything?”
“god, I don’t know,”
I answered.
“you hungry?” she
asked.
“yeah,” I said,
“we’ll eat
out.”
and I drove toward
the Chinese
place
and all about us
in traffic
were people who
knew about
computers or who
would soon know about
computers
and some who were
already
computed
themselves.
control panel.
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how ya gonna keep us
down on the
farm
if
we can’t find it on the
menu?
image
he sits in the chair across from me.
“you look healthy,” he says in a voice that is
almost disappointed.
“I’ve given up beer and I drink only
3 bottles of white German wine each night,”
I tell him.
“are you going to let your readers know
you’ve reformed?” he
asks. he walks to the refrigerator and opens
the door. “all these vitamins!”
“thiamine-hcl,” I say, “b-2, choline, b-6, folic
acid, zinc, e, b-12, niacin, calcium magnesium,
a-e complex, papa…and 3 bottles of white
German wine each night.”
“what’s this stuff in the jars on the sink?” he
asks.
“herbs,” I tell him, “goldenseal, sweet basil, alfalfa
mind, mu, lemongrass, rose hips, papaya, gotu kola, clover,
comfrey, fenugreek, sassafras and chamomile…and I drink only
spring water, mineral water and my 3 bottles of white
German
wine.”
“are you going to tell your readers
about all this?”
he asks again.
“should I tell them?” I ask.
“should I tell them that I no longer
eat anything that walks on
4 legs?”
“that’s what I mean,” he says. “people think you are a
tough guy!”
“oh?” I say.
“and what about your image?” he asks. “people don’t expect
you to live like this.”
“I know,” I say, “I’ve lost my beer-gut. I’ve come down
from a size 44 to a size 38, and I’ve lost 31 pounds.”
“I mean,” he continues, “we all thought you were a man
walking carelessly and bravely to his death, foolishly but
with style, like Don Quixote and the windmills…all that.”
“we just won’t tell anybody,” I answer, “and maybe
we can save my
image or at least prolong it.”
“you’ll be turning to God next,” he says.
“my god,” I say, “is those 3 bottles of white German wine.”
“I’m disappointed in you,” he says.
“I still fuck,” I reply, “and I still play the horses and I
go to the boxing matches and I still love my daughter
and I even love my present girlfriend. not that much has
changed.”
“all right,” he says, “we’ll keep it quiet.
can you give me a ride back to my place?
my car is in the shop.”
“all right,” I say. “I also still drive my car.”
I lock the door and we walk up the street to where
I’m parked now.
the crunch (2)
too much
too little
or too late
too fat
too thin
or too bad
laughter or
tears
or immaculate
unconcern
haters
lovers
armies running through streets of pain
waving wine bottles
bayoneting and fucking everyone
or an old guy in a cheap quiet room
with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
a clock’s hands.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in blinking neon
in Vegas, in Baltimore, in Munich.
people are tired
strafed by life
mutilated either by love or no
love.
we don’t need new governments
new revolutions
we don’t need new men
new women
we don’t need n
ew ways
we just need to care.
people are not good to each other
one on one.
people are just not good to each other.
we are afraid.
we think that hatred signifies
strength.
that punishment is
love.
what we need is less false education
what we need are fewer rules
fewer police
and more good teachers.
we forget the terror of one person
aching in one room
alone
unkissed
untouched
cut off
watering a plant alone
without a telephone that would never
ring
anyway.
people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other
people are not good to each other
and the beads swing and the clouds obscure
and dogs piss upon rose bushes
the killer beheads the child like taking a bite
out of an ice cream cone
while the ocean comes in and goes out
in and out
in the thrall of a senseless moon.
and people are not good to each other.
I’ll send you a postcard
this guy says that for $845 I can
go to Europe and
see all the
plays and
hear all the
operas.
there’s drinks on
the plane across
and good conversation
with knowledgeable
people.
I get one free
meal a day and
guided tours to
places of inter-
est.
there’s even a pass
to a ski resort
and a chauffeur
is available
plus
free maps and
hand-rolled
cigars. it lasts
2 weeks.
they don’t
say
anything about
getting fucked
but you get the
idea that every-
body who goes
will be.
bravo!
they applaud each work
without fail or thought
and four or five voices respond
with the same ringing
“BRAVO!” BRAVO!”
as if they had heard a fresh
and vital creative
breakthrough.
where have the audiences gone
that were able to select and
discriminate?
now the thought in the collective mind of
the audience is:
we understand
we know
therefore we
respond
as one.
and afterwards
at the wheels of their automobiles
they dash out of the underground
parking lot
more rude and crass
than any boxing match crowd
than any horse race crowd
cutting off others
swerving
cursing.
the March to the Gallows, indeed
Pictures at an Exhibition, of course
the Bolero, yes
The Afternoon of a Faun?
honking
zooming toward the freeways
BRAVO west L.A.
BRAVO Westwood Village
BRAVO the Hollywood Hills
BRAVO Beverly Hills.
Symphonie Pathétique, indeed.
downtown
nobody goes downtown anymore
the plants and trees have been cut away around
Pershing Square
the grass is brown
and the street preachers are not as good
as they used to be
and down on Broadway
the Latinos stand in long colorful lines
waiting to see Latino action movies.
I walk down to Clifton’s cafeteria
it’s still there
the waterfall is still there
the few white faces are old and poor
dignified
dressed in 1950s clothing
sitting at small tables on the first
floor.
I take my food upstairs to the
third floor—
all Latinos at the tables there
faces more tired than hostile
the men at rest from their factory jobs
their once beautiful wives now
heavy and satisfied
the men wanting badly to go out and raise hell
but now the money is needed for
clothing, tires, toys, TV sets
children’s shoes, the rent.
I finish eating
walk down to the first floor and out,
and nearby is a penny arcade.
I remember it from the 1940s.
I walk in.
it is full of young Latinos and Blacks
between the ages of six and
fifteen
and they shoot machine guns
play mechanical soccer
and the piped-in salsa music is very
loud.
they fly spacecraft
test their strength
fight in the ring
have horse races
auto races
but none of them want their fortunes told.
I lean against a wall and
watch them.
I go outside again.
I walk down and across from the Herald-Examiner
building
where my car is parked.
I get in. then I drive away.
it’s Sunday. and it’s true
like they say: the old gang never
goes downtown anymore.
the blue pigeon
getting a car wash today
about 1:30 p.m.
I saw this blue pigeon
come floating through the
air awkwardly
it hit the asphalt
wings spread wide
and lay there shivering
one eye open
it was dying
and I walked away
and stood by my car
where
the fellows were wiping
the windows
and then a Camaro
came fast and
got the pigeon.
turned it into a red stain
and one of the fellows
said, “Christ.”
I couldn’t have expressed
it
any better.
I tipped him a quarter
and drove off
east on Hollywood Boulevard
and then I
took a right at
Vermont.
combat primer
they called Céline a Nazi
they called Pound a fascist
they called Hamsun a Nazi and a fascist.
they put Dostoevsky in front of a firing
squad
and they shot Lorca
gave Hemingway electric shock treatments
(and you know he shot himself)
and they ran Villon out of town (Paris)
and Mayakovsky
disillusioned with the regime
and after a lovers’ quarrel,
well,
he shot himself too.
Chatterton took rat poison
and it worked.
and some say Malcolm Lowry died
choking on his own vomit
while drunk.
Crane went the way of the boat
propellor or the sharks.
Harry Crosby’s sun was black.
Berryman preferred the bridge.
Plath didn’t light the oven.
Seneca cut his wrists in the
bathtub (it’s best that way:
in warm water).
Thomas and Behan drank themselves
to death and
there are many others.
and you want to be a
writer?
it’s that kind of war:
creation kills,
many go mad,
some lose their way and
can’t do it
anymore.
a few make it to old age.
a few make money.
some starve (like Vallejo).
it’s that kind of war:
casualties everywhere.
all right, go ahead
do it
but when they sandbag you
from the blind side
don’t come to me with your
regrets.
now I’m going to smoke a cigarette
in the bathtub
and then I’m going to
sleep.
thanks for that
at this time
I no longer have to work
the nightclubs and the universities
the bookstores
for tiny checks.
I no longer have to tell the freshman English class
at the U. of Nebraska (Omaha)
while sitting with my hangover at 11 a.m.
at a brown elevated desk
why I did it
how I did it
and what they might do in order to do
it too.
but I didn’t mind the plane flights back home
with the businessmen
all of us drinking doubles
and trying not to look out past the wing
trying to relax
each happy that we were not on skid row
knowing we each had a certain talent
(so far)
which had saved us from that
(so far).
I may have to do it again some day but
right now I am where I belong:
flying over my own Mississippi River