The Last Night of the Earth Poems (4 page)

 

as a very young man I divided an equal amount of time between

the bars and the libraries; how I managed to provide for

my other ordinary needs is the puzzle; well, I simply didn’t

bother too much with that—

if I had a book or a drink then I didn’t think too much of

other things—fools create their own

paradise.

 

in the bars, I thought I was a tough, I broke things, fought

other men, etc.

 

in the libraries it was another matter: I was quiet, went

from room to room, didn’t so much read entire books

as parts of them: medicine, geology, literature and

philosophy. psychology, math, history, other things, put me

off. with music I was more interested in the music and in the

lives of the composers than in the technical aspects…

 

however, it was with the philosophers that I felt a brotherhood:

Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, even old hard-to-read Kant;

I found Santayana, who was very popular at the time, to be

limp and a bore; Hegel you really had to dig for, especially

with a hangover; there are many I read who I have forgotten,

perhaps properly so, but I remember one fellow who wrote   an

entire
book in which he proved
that the moon was not there

and he did it so well that afterwards you thought, he’s

absolutely right, the moon is
not
there.

how the hell is a young man going to deign to work an

8 hour day when the moon isn’t even there?

what else

might be missing?

 

and

I didn’t like literature so much as I did the literary

critics; they were real pricks, those guys; they used

fine language, beautiful in its way, to call other

critics, other writers, assholes. they

perked me up.

 

but it was the philosophers who satisfied

that need

that lurked somewhere within my confused skull: wading

through their excesses and their

clotted vocabulary

they still often

stunned

leaped out

with a flaming gambling statement that appeared to be

absolute truth or damned near

absolute truth,

and this certainty was what I was searching for in a daily

life that seemed more like a piece of

cardboard.

 

what great fellows those old dogs were, they got me past

days like razors and nights full of rats; and women

bargaining like auctioneers from hell.

 

my brothers, the philosophers, they spoke to me unlike

anybody on the streets or anywhere else; they

filled an immense void.

such good boys, ah, such good

boys!

 

yes, the libraries helped; in my other temple, the

bars, it was another matter, more simplistic, the

language and the way was

different…

 

library days, bar nights.

the nights were alike,

there’s some fellow sitting nearby, maybe not a

bad sort, but for me he doesn’t shine right,

there’s a gruesome deadness there—I think of my father,

of schoolteachers, of faces on coins and bills, of dreams

about murderers with dull eyes; well,

somehow this fellow and I get to exchanging glances,

a fury slowly begins to gather: we are enemies, cat and

dog, priest and atheist, fire and water; tension builds,

block piled upon block, waiting for the crash; our hands

fold and unfold, we drink, now, finally with a

purpose:

 

his face turns to me:

“sumpin’ ya don’t like, buddy?”

 

“yeah. you.”

 

“wanna do sumpin’ about it?”

 

“certainly.”

 

we finish our drinks, rise, move to the back of the

bar, out into the alley; we

turn, face each other.

 

I say to him, “there’s nothing but space between us. you

care to close that

space?”

 

he rushes toward me and somehow it’s a part of the part of the

part.

 

my wife likes movie houses, the popcorn and soft drinks, the

settling into seats, she finds a child’s delight in

this and I am happy for her—but really, I myself, I must have

come from another place, I must have been a mole in another

life, something that burrowed and hid alone:

the other people crowded in the seats, near and far, give me

feelings that I dislike; it’s stupid, maybe, but there it

is; and then

there’s the darkness and then the

giant human faces, bodies, that move about on the screen, they

speak and we

listen.

 

of one hundred movies there’s one that’s fair, one that’s good

and ninety eight that are very bad.

most movies start badly and steadily get

worse;

if you can believe the actions and speech of the

characters

you might even believe that the popcorn you chew also

has a meaning of

sorts.

(well, it might be that people see so many movies

that when they finally see one not

so bad as the others, they think it’s

great. an Academy Award means that you don’t stink

quite as much as your cousin.)

 

the movie ends and we are out in the street, moving

toward the car; “well,” says my wife, “it wasn’t as

good as they say.”

“no,” I say, “it wasn’t.”

 

“there were a few good parts, though,” she replies.

“yeah,” I answer.

we are at the car, get in, then I am driving us out

of that part of town; we look around at the night;

the night looks good.

 

“you hungry?” she asks.

 

“yes. you?”

 

we stop at a signal; I watch the red light;

I could eat that red light—anything, anything at

all to fill the void; millions of dollars spent to create

something more terrible than the actual lives of

most living things; one should never have to pay an

admission to hell.

 

the light changes and we escape,

forward.

 

we are always asked

to understand the other person’s

viewpoint

no matter how

out-dated

foolish or

obnoxious.

 

one is asked

to view

their total error

their life-waste

with

kindliness,

especially if they are

aged.

 

but age is the total of

our doing.

they have aged

badly

because they have

lived

out of focus,

they have refused to

see.

 

not their fault?

 

whose fault?

mine?

 

I am asked to hide

my viewpoint

from them

for fear of their

fear.

 

age is no crime

 

but the shame

of a deliberately

wasted

life

 

among so many

deliberately

wasted

lives

 

is.

 

when we were kids

there was a strange house

all the shades were

always

drawn

and we never heard voices

in there

and the yard was full of

bamboo

and we liked to play in

the bamboo

pretend we were

Tarzan

(although there was no

Jane).

and there was a

fish pond

a large one

full of the

fattest goldfish

you ever saw

and they were

tame.

they came to the

surface of the water

and took pieces of

bread

from our hands.

 

our parents had

told us:

“never go near that

house.”

so, of course,

we went.

we wondered if anybody

lived there.

weeks went by and we

never saw

anybody.

 

then one day

we heard

a voice

from the house

“YOU GOD DAMNED

WHORE!”

 

it was a man’s

voice.

 

then the screen

door

of the house was

flung open

and the man

walked

out.

 

he was holding a

fifth of whiskey

in his right

hand.

he was about

30.

he had a cigar

in his

mouth,

needed a

shave.

his hair was

wild and

uncombed

and he was

barefoot

in undershirt

and pants.

but his eyes

were

bright.

they
blazed

with

brightness

and he said,

“hey, little

gentlemen,

having a good

time, I

hope?”

 

then he gave a

little laugh

and walked

back into the

house.

 

we left,

went back to my

parents’ yard

and thought

about it.

 

our parents,

we decided,

had wanted us

to stay away

from there

because they

never wanted us

to see a man

like

that,

a strong natural

man

with

beautiful

eyes.

 

our parents

were ashamed

that they were

not

like that

man,

that’s why they

wanted us

to stay

away.

 

but

we went back

to that house

and the bamboo

and the tame

goldfish.

we went back

many times

for many

weeks

but we never

saw

or heard

the man

again.

 

the shades were

down

as always

and it was

quiet.

 

then one day

as we came back from

school

we saw the

house.

 

it had burned

down,

there was nothing

left,

just a smoldering

twisted black

foundation

and we went to

the fish pond

and there was

no water

in it

and the fat

orange goldfish

were dead

there,

drying out.

 

we went back to

my parents’ yard

and talked about

it

and decided that

our parents had

burned their

house down,

had killed

them

had killed the

goldfish

because it was

all too

beautiful,

even the bamboo

forest had

burned.

they had been

afraid of

the man with the

beautiful

eyes.

 

and

we were afraid

then

that

all throughout our lives

things like that

would

happen,

that nobody

wanted

anybody

to be

strong and

beautiful

like that,

that

others would never

allow it,

and that

many people

would have to

die.