Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (11 page)

 

what is it?

an old woman, fat, yellow dress,

torn stockings

sitting on the curbing

with a little boy.

98 degrees at 3 in the afternoon

it seems

obscene.

but look, they are calm,

almost happy,

they eat the green jello

and the red roses shine.

 

 

to be eaten by a hog with

bad breath

 

 

as the lemons swing in the wind

 

 

yellow and ours.

 

lovers everywhere

clutch like asparagus

leaves

 

of course, he still gets his choice

after the bullfights,

but like with any other man

the special one comes along.

you can feel it in the stomach

when they get you there,

and the girl said,

“It’s either bullfighting or me.”

 

 

he turned on love

to look at the face of death.

 

 

you can see him at Tijuana

working close to the horn

taking chance after

chance. he’s been gored

a number of times.

 

 

and you wonder if the thing is

working at his stomach

as he fights

getting him in closer

than he should

 

 

the sword is pointed

in the sunlight,

it goes in:

love.

 

 

at the Thrifty drugstore

buying a 5th of gin and a 5th of vodka

she was a dyed blond

and she was relaxed in a black and white striped dress

that fell just below knee-length

and her breasts were large

and she was a little bit fat

and the salesgirl who served her showed disgust

but the whore was used to all that

and waited for her change

and for the bottles to be bagged

and when the whore walked out

she walked out easily

and people looked up from their magazines

and the boys around the newsstand looked

and the people parking their cars looked

and I walked behind her

and I looked

and she got into a green car

pooltable green

lit a cigarette,

and I’m sure she drove off to someplace

magic

where people were always laughing and

the music was always playing

and the drinks were good

and the furniture and rugs were nice

and the mountains were tall

and there were 3 German shepherds on the lawn,

and when she made love you knew it

and the price was not a lifetime,

the blue cigarette smoke curling in the black

ashtray a little wet with beer and mix,

she’d roll you with the security of a leopard

getting a deer,

and you ought to see her in the bathtub

singing an aria from one of those

Italian operas.

 

 

the fish ate the flower

and the tombs whistled

Dixie

as you told me you didn’t care

anymore

 

 

old men in the pawnshops of the world

looked around and killed themselves in my mind

when you said you

didn’t care

anymore

 

 

the day I saw you with your new

lover

you and your new lover

walking down my boulevards

past the butcher shop

past the liquor store

past the real estate

agency

 

 

ha ha

 

 

suddenly I didn’t care

anymore

 

 

I went into the store and I bought

a figurine of a fawn

a small cactus

a box of shrimp

a pair of green gloves

a paring knife

some incense

pepper milk eggs

a fifth of

whiskey

and a roadmap of lower

Texas

the clerk put it all in a bag

it bulged and was heavy and

at last I knew that I had

something.

 

 

I took my girlfriend to your last poetry reading,

she said.

yes, yes? I asked.

she’s young and pretty, she said.

and? I asked.

she hated your

guts.

 

 

then she stretched out on the couch

and pulled off her

boots.

 

 

I don’t have very good legs,

she said.

 

 

all right, I thought, I don’t have very good

poetry; she doesn’t have very good

legs.

 

 

scramble two.

 

 

we’d had our icecream cones

been scared by a dog

picked flowers

held hands in the sunlight.

 

 

my little girl is 6

and as good a girl as can

be.

 

 

we walked back to my place

where two ladies were moving

out of the apartment

next door.

 

 

one was a dwarf,

quite squat

with short trunk-like

legs.

 

 

“Hank, what’s wrong with that

woman?”

 

 

I’m sorry, little lady,

that my child didn’t know

that there wasn’t anything

wrong with you.

 

 

There I am

hungover, I’ve just made it in

and sit next to the mother of my child;

she sits there old and grey,

I sit there old and greying…

there’s a 6 year old daughter,

it’s Christmas at Edison Grammar School,

December 17th,

1 p.m.

I sit mostly with women.

ah, there’s a guy, and there’s a guy…

what’s the matter with those bums?

no jobs? too

bad.

 

 

first there’s something…

they need 5 nominations for the

P.T.A. board.

4 old dames nominate each other,

like sneaky Hitlers.

nobody wants the 5th nomination…

“Will everybody in favor of the nominations

being closed, please Yea in the

affirmative?”

there’s a dog in there…somebody

steps on his

tail:

“YEA-IKE!” he goes…

everybody laughs, the nominations are closed.

Jesus Christ,

by a dog…

 

 

o.k., trot them on.

no wait. the orchestra. tiny little people with

tiny little violins, most serious little

people. they are the string section.

they play “Christmas Songs” under the direction

of Mr. Plepler and Mr. Mettler.

Mettler? oh well, it’s not

very good.

“Five Little Christmas Bells,” courtesy A.M. & P.M. Kindergarten,

has been changed to “Rocking The Child.”

no reason is

given.

 

 

the dog has been

kicked out. I am still there

with hangover.

 

 

next the Kindergartens sing

“Jingle Bells.” they’ve been taught by

Mrs. Bowers, Miss Lemon, Miss Lieberman.

 

 

I check my program…

how much longer?

 

 

I notice that the children are black, white,

oriental, brown…it’s integration

but it’s easy, they show us how easy.

2nd, 3rd, 4th grades…

“Twelve Days of Christmas,” they hold up paintings,

take them down; up down, up down, and back to

the Partridge in the Pear Tree.

they’ve done it. perfect. even with the

mistakes. courtesy Mrs. La Brache, Mrs. Bitticks.

next comes

“Pine Cones and Holly Berries,” not so

good.

 

 

now here are the 5th and 6th graders…

“Santa and the Mouse”…

it’s garbled, nobody can hear what they are

saying. it’s under the direction of

Mr. Doerflinger. and he flings ’em.

he sits them down and sits right down with them

and all you can hear is

Mr. Doerflinger’s beautiful voice.

Doerflinger seems everywhere. there he is in the center.

there he is showing his

buttocks. he likes to leap and run

about. he sings and sings and gives his 5th and 6th

graders the minor parts to back his

singular chorus. I try to force myself to get jealous

of Doerflinger but I

can’t. I’m very happy that I am not

Mr. Doerflinger. a woman across the aisle turns to me:

“He has a beautiful voice,” she says.

“Yes,” I smile back,

“he has.”

 

 

“Christmas Tree,” 3rd, 4th, 5th graders.

then, of course, we have

“Deck the Halls.”

courtesy of Mrs. Homes.

 

 

o, my god, it’s the 1st and 2nd graders

now! I’m nervous as shit.

I’m sick, I

don’t know what to

do. I’ve done time, lain in alleys drunk,

slept with 50 women, I can’t take

it…the mother of my child seems

quite calm. I’m the

coward…where
is
she?

all of a sudden they bring them through the

back door—

they’ve been bringing them

through the front.

what’s going on?

 

 

there’s my kid, she’s walking

past. “hi!” I say, “hi!”

she smiles and puts a finger to her

lips. “shhh…”

 

 

they file onto the

platform. 1st and 2nd graders,

c/o Mr. Garnes, Miss McCormick, Mrs. Nagata, Mrs.

Samarge. o.k.

“Too Fat for the Chimney”…

not too good,

but she keeps looking at me and grinning,

singing, waving;

I smile back, wave, all

grins…the old jailbird…

then “Toy Trains.”

much better. we applaud. they file out in order,

each waiting their

turn.

 

 

she’s gone…

somewhere.

 

 

the remainder of the program loses

some meaning,

except a very sexy young

chicano teacher

in a yellow dress

comes out and sings

“Silent Night”

in Spanish.

 

 

meanwhile Mr. Doerflinger is seen running about,

in this door, out that

one, showing his buttocks,

racing across the stage in some

great

urgency…

 

 

“Doerflinger,” says somebody.

he will not be forgotten by

anybody. he will not allow himself to be,

especially by the ladies.

 

 

it goes on.

“
Let There Be Peace On Earth
”

we all sing together. the last number on the

program.

 

 

taxpayers forget Christmas, remember instead how nice your

children are.

 

 

we get back to the mother’s apartment

and there is a notice that they will shut off

the gas that

day. the mother claims no previous

notice has been

received.

I drive them down to 5th street

in Santa Monica

to the gas co.

 

 

I wave

goodbye. they stand on the corner.

my daughter has a hole

in her black

tights,

right

knee…

 

 

“Let there be peace on earth

And let it begin with me.

Let there be peace on earth,

The peace that was meant to be.

With God as our Father,

Brothers all are we—

Let me walk with my brother

In perfect harmony.”