The Last Night of the Earth Poems (26 page)

 

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a

train and that they never were recovered.

I can’t match the agony of this

but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem

upon this computer

and through my lack of diligence and

practice

and by playing around with commands

on the menu

I somehow managed to erase the poem

forever.

believe me, such a thing is difficult to do

even for a novice

but I somehow managed to do

it.

 

now I don’t think this 3-pager was immortal

but there were some crazy wild lines,

now gone forever.

it bothers more than a touch, it’s something

like knocking over a good bottle of

wine.

 

and writing about it hardly makes a good

poem.

still, I thought somehow you’d like to

know?

 

if not, at least you’ve read this far

and there could be better work

down the line.

 

let’s hope so, for your sake

and

mine.

 

it’s always a surprise to some

when the killer is that clean-cut

quiet boy with the gentle smile

who went to church

and was nearly a straight-A

student

and also good on the athletic

field,

kind to his elders,

adored by the young girls,

the old ones,

admired by his

peers.

 

“I can’t believe he did it…”

 

they always think a killer must

be ugly, gross, unlikable,

that he must give off signs,

signals of anger and

madness.

 

sometimes these kill

too.

 

but a potential killer can never

be judged by his

externals

 

nor a politician, a priest or

a poet.

 

or the dog

or the woman

wagging

tails.

the killer sits anywhere

like you

as you read this

 

wondering.

 

starving there, sitting around the bars,

and at night walking the streets for

hours,

the moonlight always seemed fake

to me, maybe it was,

and in the French Quarter I watched

the horses and buggies going by,

everybody sitting high in the open

carriages, the black driver, and in

back the man and the woman,

usually young and always white.

and I was always white.

and hardly charmed by the

world.

New Orleans was a place to

hide.

I could piss away my life,

unmolested.

except for the rats.

the rats in my dark small room

very much resented sharing it

with me.

they were large and fearless

and stared at me with eyes

that spoke

an unblinking

death.

 

women were beyond me.

they saw something

depraved.

there was one waitress

a little older than

I, she rather smiled,

lingered when she

brought my

coffee.

that was plenty for

me, that was

enough.

 

there was something about

that city, though:

it didn’t let me feel guilty

that I had no feeling for the

things so many others

needed.

it let me alone.

 

sitting up in my bed

the lights out,

hearing the outside

sounds,

lifting my cheap

bottle of wine,

letting the warmth of

the grape

enter

me

as I heard the rats

moving about the

room,

I preferred them

to

humans.

 

being lost,

being crazy maybe

is not so bad

if you can be

that way:

undisturbed.

 

New Orleans gave me

that.

nobody ever called

my name.

no telephone,

no car,

no job,

no

anything.

 

me and the

rats

and my youth,

one time,

that time

I knew

even through the

nothingness,

it was a

celebration

of something not to

do

but only

know.

 

getting old, and older, concerned that

you might not get your driver’s license

renewed, concerned that the hangovers

last longer, concerned that you might

not reach the age of 85,

concerned that the poems will stop

arriving.

concerned that you are concerned.

 

concerned that you might die in the

spa.

concerned that you might die on the

freeway while driving in from the

track.

concerned that you might die in your

lap pool.

concerned that the remainder of your

teeth

will not last.

 

concerned about dying but not about

death.

 

concerned that people will no longer

consider you dangerous when

drunk.

 

concerned that you will forget who

the enemy is.

 

concerned that you will forget how to

laugh.

 

concerned that there will be nothing to

drink in hell.

and concerned you will have to

listen to

one poetry reading

after another

after another…

 

the Los Angeles poets

the New York poets

the Iowa poets

 

the black poets

the white poets

the Chicano poets

the 3rd world poets

 

the female poets

the homosexual poets

the lesbian poets

the bisexual poets

the sexless poets

the failed poets

the famous poets

the dead poets

the etc. poets

 

concerned that the toteboard will

explode into flowers of

shit

 

and the night will never

come.

 

he’s 95, lives in a large two story

house.

 

“they want to send me to a rest

home. ‘hell,’ I tell them, ‘this

IS my home!’”

 

he speaks of his grandchildren.

he’s outlived his

children.

 

he visits his wife who’s also

95.

she’s in a rest

home.

 

“she looks great but she doesn’t

know who I am.”

 

he lives on bacon, tomatoes and

breakfast cereal.

 

he lives on a steep hill.

used to take his little dog for

walks.

the dog died.

 

he walks alone now,

straight-backed,

carrying an

oak cane.

he’s 6 foot two,

lean,

jocular,

imposing.

“they can’t wait for me to

die, they want my house

and money.

I’m gonna live just to

spite them.”

 

I see him in his room upstairs

at night

watching tv or

reading.

 

he was married longer than

most men

live.

he still is

only she doesn’t know she’s

married.

 

he sits up in his room

on top of nine and one

half

decades

neither asking nor

giving

mercy.

 

he is an ocean of

wonder,

he is a shining

rock.

 

quick of mind,

so quick.

 

when death comes for

him

it should be

ashamed.

I so want to see that light burning

in that upstairs

window!

 

when it goes dark

it will be another world

not quite so magic

not quite so good

 

when it goes dark.

 

the Spaniards had it right and the Greeks had it

right but

my grandmother, heavy with warts, was

confused.

 

Galileo did more than guess and

Salisbury became what?

 

the brightness of doom is anybody’s

mess as

donkeys and camels are still put to

use.

 

Cleopatra would have loved

Canadian bacon and

nobody speaks of the

hills of Rome

anymore.

 

the curve ball curves

and vanilla icecream is always

overstocked.

 

600,000 people died in the

siege of Leningrad

and we got Shostakovich’s

Seventh.

 

tonight there were gunshots

outside

and I sat and rubbed my

fingers across my greasy

forehead.

 

palaces, palaces,

and oceans with black

filthy

claws.

 

the shortest distance between

2 points is

often

intolerable.

 

who stuck the apple into the

pig’s

mouth?

who plucked out his eyes

and baked him

like that?

Cassiodorus?

Cato?

 

the aviators of May

the buried dogs bones

the marshmallow kisses

the yellowed fleece of sound

the

tack

in the foot.

 

Virginia is slim.

Madeline is back.

Tina’s on the gin.

Becky’s on the phone.

don’t

answer.

 

I see you in the closet.

I see you in the dark.

I see you dead.

I see you in the back of a

pick up truck on the

Santa Monica

freeway.

the perfect place to be

in the rain

is in the rain

walking toward a

farmhouse

at one thirty

a.m.

there is a lone light

in an upper

window.

it goes out.

a dog howls.

 

the nature of the dream is

best interpreted by the

dreamer.

 

the snail crawls home.

the toes under a blanket

is one of the most magical

sights

ever.

 

wood is frozen

fire.

 

my hand is my hand.

my hand is your hand.

 

the blue shot of

nerve.

 

Turgenev

Turgenev

 

the cloud walks toward

me

 

the pigeon speaks my

name.