The Last Night of the Earth Poems (2 page)

 

that Harbor Freeway south through the downtown

area—I mean, it can simply become

unbelievable
.

 

last Friday evening I was sitting there

motionless behind a wall of red taillights,

there wasn’t even first gear movement

as masses of exhaust fumes

greyed the evening air, engines overheated

and there was the smell of a clutch

burning out

somewhere—

it seemed to come from ahead of me—

from that long slow rise of freeway where

the cars were working

from first gear to neutral

again and again

and from neutral back to

first gear.

 

on the radio I heard the news

of that day

at least 6 times, I was

well versed in world

affairs.

the remainder of the stations played a

thin, sick music.

the classical stations refused to come in

clearly

and when they did

it was a stale repetition of standard and

tiresome works.

 

I turned the radio off.

a strange whirling began in my

head—it circled behind the forehead, clock
wise, went past             the ears and around to the

back of the head, then back to the forehead

and around

again.

I began to wonder, is this what happens

when one goes

mad?

 

I considered getting out of my car.

I was in the so-called fast

lane.

I could see myself out there

out of my car

leaning against the freeway divider,

arms folded.

then I would slide down to a sitting

position, putting my head between

my legs.

 

I stayed in the car, bit my tongue, turned

the radio back on,
willed
the whirling to

stop

as I wondered if any of the others had to

battled against their

compulsions

as I did?

 

then the car ahead of me

MOVED

a foot, 2 feet, 3 feet!

 

I shifted to first gear…

there was MOVEMENT!

then I was back in neutral

BUT

we
had moved
from 7 to

ten feet.

 

hearing the world news for the

7th time,

it was still all bad

but all of us listening,

we could handle that too

because we knew

that there was nothing worse than

looking at

that same license plate

that same dumb head sticking up

from behind the headrest

in the car ahead of you

as time dissolved

as the temperature gauge leaned

more to the right

as the gas gauge leaned

more to the left

as we wondered

whose
clutch was burning

out?

 

we were like some last, vast

final dinosaur

crawling feebly home somewhere,

somehow, maybe

to

die.

 

at L.A. City College there were two toughs, me and Jed Anderson.

Anderson was one of the best running backs in the

history of the school, a real breakaway threat

anytime he got the football.

I was pretty tough physically but looked at sports

as a game for freaks.

I thought a bigger game was challenging those

who attempted to teach

us.

 

anyhow, Jed and I were the two biggest lights on

campus, he piled up his 60, 70 and 80 yard

runs in the night games

and during the days

slouched in my seat

I made up what I didn’t know

and what I did know

was so bad

many a teacher was made to

dance to it.

 

and one grand day

Jed and I

finally met.

it was at a little jukebox place

across from campus and

he was sitting with his

pals

and I was sitting with

mine.

 

“go on! go on! talk to him!”

my pals

urged.

I said, “fuck that gym

boy. I am one with

Nietzsche, let him come

over here!”

 

finally Jed got up to get a

pack of smokes from the

machine and one of my

friends asked,

“are you afraid of that

man?”

 

I got up and walked behind

Jed as he was reaching into the

machine

for his pack.

 

“hello, Jed,” I

said.

 

he turned: “hello,

Hank.”

 

then he reached into his

rear pocket,

pulled out a pint of

whiskey, handed it to

me.

 

I took a mighty hit,

handed it

back.

 

“Jed, what are you

going to do

after

L.A.C.C.?”

 

“I’m going to play

for Notre Dame.”

then he walked back

to his table

and I walked back

to mine.

 

“what’d he say? what’d

he say?”

 

“nothing much.”

 

anyhow, Jed never made it

to Notre Dame

and I never made it

anywhere

either—

the years just swept us

away

but there were others

who went

on, including one fellow

who became a famous

sports columnist

and I had to look at his

photo

for decades

in the newspaper

as I inherited those

cheap rooms

and those roaches

and those airless

dreary

nights.

 

but

I was still proud of that moment

back then

when Jed handed me

that pint

and

I drained

a third of it

with all the disciples

watching.

damn, there was no way

it seemed

we could ever

lose

but we did.

 

and it took me

3 or 4 decades to

move on just a

little.

and Jed,

if you are still here

tonight,

(I forgot to tell you

then)

here’s a thanks

for that drink.