The Last Night of the Earth Poems (22 page)

 

I was a bum in San Francisco but once managed

to go to a symphony concert along with the well-dressed

people

and the music was good but something about the

audience was not

and something about the orchestra

and the conductor was

not,

although the building was fine and the

acoustics perfect

I preferred to listen to the music alone

on my radio

and afterwards I did go back to my room and I

turned on the radio but

then there was a pounding on the wall:

“SHUT THAT GOD-DAMNED THING OFF!”

 

there was a soldier in the next room

living with his wife

and he would soon be going over there to protect

me from Hitler so

I snapped the radio off and then heard his

wife say, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

and the soldier said, “FUCK THAT GUY!”

which I thought was a very nice thing for him

to tell his wife to do.

of course,

she never did.

 

anyhow, I never went to another live concert

and that night I listened to the radio very

quietly, my ear pressed to the

speaker.

 

war has its price and peace never lasts and

millions of young men everywhere would die

and as I listened to the classical music I

heard them making love, desperately and

mournfully, through Shostakovich, Brahms,

Mozart, through crescendo and climax,

and through the shared

wall of our darkness.

 

Fred, they called him.

he always sat at the end of the

bar

near the doorway

and he was always there

from opening to

closing.

he was there more than

I was,

which is saying

something.

 

he never talked to

anybody.

he just sat there

drinking his glasses of

draft beer.

he looked straight ahead

right across the bar

but he never looked at

anybody.

 

and there’s one other

thing.

 

he got up

now and then

and went to the

jukebox

and he always played the

same record:

Bonaparte’s Retreat
.

 

he played that song

all day and all night

long.

it was his song,

all right.

 

he never got tired

of it.

 

and when his draft beers

really got to him

he’d get up and play

Bonaparte’s Retreat

6 or 7 times

running.

 

nobody knew who he was or

how he made

it,

only that he lived in a

hotel room

across the street

and was the first customer

in the bar

each day

as it

opened.

 

I protested to Clyde

the bartender:

“listen, he’s driving us

crazy with that

thing.

eventually, all the other

records are

rotated

but

Bonaparte’s Retreat

remains.

what does it

mean?”

 

“it’s his song,”

said Clyde.

“don’t you have a

song?”

 

well, I came in about one

p.m. this day

and all the regulars

were there

but Fred wasn’t

there.

 

I ordered my drink,

then said out loud,

“hey, where’s

Fred?”

 

“Fred’s dead,”

said Clyde.

 

I looked down at the end

of the bar.

the sun came through the

blinds

but there was nobody

at the end

stool.

 

“you’re kidding me,”

I said, “Fred’s back in the

crapper or

something.”

 

“Fred didn’t come in this

morning,” said Clyde, “so

I went over to his

hotel room

and there he

was

stiff as a

cigar

box.”

everybody was very

quiet.

those guys never said

much

anyhow.

 

“well,” I said, “at least

we won’t have to hear

Bonaparte’s Retreat

anymore.”

 

nobody said

anything.

 

“is that record

still in the

juke?” I

asked.

 

“yes,” said

Clyde.

 

“well,” I said,

“I’m going to play it

one more time.”

 

I got up.

 

“hold it,”

said Clyde.

 

he came around the bar,

walked to the

juke

box.

 

he had a little key

in his

hand.

he put the key

in the juke

and opened

it.

 

he reached in

and pulled

out a

record.

 

then he took the

record and

broke it over

his

knee.

 

“it was his

song,” said

Clyde.

 

then he locked

the juke,

took the broken

record

behind the bar

and

trashed

it.

 

the name of the

bar

was

fewel’s
.

it was at

Crenshaw and

Adams

and it’s not

there

anymore.

 

got a flat on the freeway

11 a.m.

going north

I got over to the

side

a small strip

on the freeway

edge

got out the jack

and the

spare

went to

work

the big rigs

going by

blasts of air and

noise

shaking everything

and to top it

all

it was

cold

an icy

wind

and I thought,

Jesus Christ, mercy,

can I do this

thing?

this would be a

good place to

go crazy and

chuck it all

in

 

but I got the

new wheel

on,

the old one

in the trunk

and then I was

back in the

car

 

I gunned it into

the swirl of

traffic

and there I was

like nothing

had ever

happened

 

moving along

with everybody

else

 

all of us

caught up in our

petty larcenies

and our

rotting

virtues

 

I gunned it

hard

made the fast

lane

 

pushed the

button

as my radio

antenna

sliced into the

sky.

 

you

wonder about

the time

when

you ran through women

like an open-field

maniac

with this total

disregard for

panties, dish towels,

photos

and all the other

accoutrements—

like

the tangling of

souls.

 

what

were you

trying to

do

trying to

catch up

with?

 

it was like a

hunt.

how many

could you

bag?

move

onto?

 

names

shoes

dresses

sheets, bathrooms

bedrooms, kitchens

back

rooms,

cafes,

pets,

names of pets,

names of children;

middle names, last

names, made-up

names.

 

you proved it was

easy.

you proved it

could be done

again and

again,

those legs held

high

behind most of

you.

or

they were on top

or

you were

behind

or

both

sideways

plus

other

inventions.

 

songs on radios.

parked cars.

telephone voices.

the pouring of

drinks.

the senseless

conversations.

now you know

you were nothing but a

fucking

dog,

a snail wrapped around

a snail—

sticky shells in the

sunlight, or in

the misty evenings,

or in the dark

dark.

 

you were

nature’s

idiot,

not proving but

being

proved.

not a man but a

plan

unfolding,

not thrusting but

being

pierced.

now

you know.

 

then

you thought you were

such a

clever devil

such a

cad

such a

man-bull

such a

bad boy

 

smiling over your

wine

planning your next

move

 

what a

waste of time

you were

 

you great

rider

you Attila of

the springs and

elsewhere

 

you could have

slept through it

all

and you would never

have been

missed

 

never would have

been

missed

at

all.