Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit (7 page)

 

young men from the underground

newspapers and the small circulation

magazines come

more and more often

to interview me—

their hair is long

they are thin

have tape recorders and

arrive with

much beer.

most

of them

manage to stay some hours and

get intoxicated.

 

 

if one of my girlfriends is around

I get her to do the

talking.

go ahead, I say, tell them the

truth about me.

 

 

then they tell what they think is

the truth.

 

 

they paint me to resemble the

idiot

which is true.

 

 

then I’m questioned:

 

 

why did you stop writing for ten

years
?

 

 

I don’t know.

 

 

how come you didn’t get into the

army
?

crazy.

 

 

can you speak German
?

 

 

no.

 

 

who are your favorite modern

writers
?

 

 

I don’t know.

 

 

I seldom see the

interviews, although once one of

the young men wrote back that

my girlfriend had

kissed him

when I was in the bathroom.

 

 

you got off easy, I wrote back

and by the way

forget that shit I told you about

Dos Passos. or was it

Mailer? it’s hot tonight

and half the neighborhood is

drunk. the other half is

dead.

if I have any advice about writing

poetry, it’s—

don’t. I’m going to send out for

some fried chicken.

 

 

buk

 

 

there he is:

not too many hangovers

not too many fights with women

not too many flat tires

never a thought of suicide

 

 

not more than three toothaches

never missed a meal

never in jail

never in love

 

 

7 pairs of shoes

 

 

a son in college

 

 

a car one year old

 

 

insurance policies

 

 

a very green lawn

 

 

garbage cans with tight lids

 

 

he’ll be elected.

 

 

I was young

no stomach

arms of wire

but strong

 

 

I arrived drunk at the factory

every morning

and out-worked the whole pack of them

without strain

 

 

the old guy

his name was Sully

good old Irish Sully

he fumbled with screws

 

 

and whistled the same song all day

long:

 

 

Yankee Doodle came to town

Ridin’ on a pony

He stuck a feather in his hat

And called it macaroni
…

 

 

they say he had been whistling that song

for years

 

 

I began whistling right along

with him

 

 

we whistled together for hours

him counting screws

me packing 8 foot long light fixtures into

coffin boxes

as the days went on

he began to pale and tremble

he’d miss a note now and then

 

 

I whistled on

 

 

he began to miss days

 

 

then he missed a week

 

 

next I knew

the word got out

Sully was in a hospital for an

operation

 

 

2 weeks later he came in with a cane

and his wife

 

 

he shook hands with everybody

 

 

a 40 year man

 

 

when they had the retirement party for him

I missed it

because of a terrible

hangover

 

 

after he was gone

oddly

I kept looking for him,

and I realized that he had

never hated me, that I

had only hated

him

I began drinking more

missing more days

 

 

then they let me go

too

I’ve never minded getting

fired but that was the one time

I felt it.

 

 

I care for you, darling, I love you,

the only reason I fucked L. is because you fucked

Z. and then I fucked R. and you fucked N.

and because you fucked N. I had to fuck

Y. But I think of you constantly, I feel you

here in my belly like a baby, love I’d call it,

no matter what happens I’d call it love, and so

you fucked C. and then before I could move

you fucked W., so then I had to fuck D. But

I want you to know that I love you, I think of you

constantly, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anybody

like I love you.

 

 

bow wow bow wow wow

bow wow bow wow wow.

 

 

always carry a notebook with you

wherever you go, he said,

and don’t drink too much, drinking dulls

the sensibilities,

attend readings, note breath pauses,

and when
you
read

always understate

underplay, the crowd is smarter than you

might think,

and when you write something

don’t send it out right away,

put it in a drawer for two weeks,

then take it out and look

at it, and revise, revise,

REVISE
again and again,

tighten lines like bolts holding the span

of a 5 mile bridge,

and keep a notebook by your bed,

you will get thoughts during the night

and these thoughts will vanish and be wasted

unless you notate them.

and don’t drink, any fool can

drink, we are men of

letters.

 

 

for a guy who couldn’t write at all

he was about like the rest

of them: he could sure

talk about

it.

 

 

I had a most difficult job

starting my 14 year old car today

in 100 degree heat

I had to take the carburetor off

leap back and forth

adjusting the set-screw,

a 2 by 4 jammed against the gas pedal

to hold it down.

 

 

I got it going—after 45 minutes—

I mailed 4 letters

purchased something cool

came back

got into my place

and listened to Ives

had dreams of empire

my great white belly against

the fan.

 

 

there are these 2 women

I know who are

quite similar

 

 

almost the same

age

well-read

literary

 

 

I once slept with both of

them

but that’s all

over

 

 

we’re friends

 

 

they’ve been to Africa

Paris

Greece

 

 

here and there

 

 

fucked some famous men

 

 

one is now living with a

millionaire

some few miles

from here

goes to breakfast and

dinner with him

feeds his fish his cats and

his dog

when she gets drunk she phones

me

the other is having it

more difficult living

alone in a small apartment in

Venice (Calif.)

listening to the bongo

drums

 

 

famous men seem to want

young women

 

 

a young woman is easier

to get rid

of: they have more

places to

go

 

 

it is difficult for women who

were once beautiful

to get

old

 

 

they have to become more

intelligent (if they want to

hold their men) and do

more things

in bed and out of

bed

 

 

these 2 women I know

they’re good both

in and out of

bed

 

 

and they’re intelligent

intelligent enough to know

they can’t come see me

and stay

more than an

hour or two

they are quite

similar

 

 

and I know

if they read this poem

they’ll understand

it

just as well as they

understand

Rimbaud or Rilke

 

 

or Keats

 

 

meanwhile I have met a

young blonde from the

Fairfax district

 

 

as she looks at my paintings

on the walls

I rub the bottoms of

her feet.

 

 

the drunk tank judge is

late like any other

judge and he is

young

well-fed

educated

spoiled and

from a good

family.

 

 

we drunks put out our cigarettes and await his

mercy.

 

 

those who couldn’t make bail are

first. “guilty,” they say, they all say,

“guilty.”

“7 days.” “14 days.” “14 days and then you will be

released to the Honor Farm.” “4 days.” “7 days.”

“14 days.”

 

 

“judge, these guys beat hell out of a man

in there.”

 

 

“next.”

 

 

“judge, they really beat hell out of me.”

 

 

“next case, please.”

 

 

“7 days.” “14 days and then you will be released to the

Honor Farm.”

 

 

the drunk tank judge is

young and

overfed, he has

eaten too many meals. he is

fat.

the bail-out drunks are

next. they put us in long lines and

he takes us

quickly. “2 days or 40 dollars.” “2 days or 40

dollars.” “2 days or 40 dollars.” “2 days or

40 dollars.”

 

 

there are 35 or

40 of us.

the courthouse is on San Fernando Road among the

junkyards.

 

 

when we go to the bailiff he

tells us,

“your bail will apply.”

 

 

“what?”

 

 

“your bail will apply.”

 

 

the bail is $50. the court keeps the

ten.

 

 

we walk outside and get into our

old automobiles.

most of our automobiles look worse than

the ones in the

junkyards. some of us

don’t have any

automobiles, most of us are

Mexicans and poor whites.

the trainyards are across the

street. the sun is up

good.

 

 

the judge has very

smooth

delicate

skin, the judge has

fat

jowls.

 

 

we walk and we drive away from the

courthouse.

 

 

justice.