The Last Night of the Earth Poems (6 page)

 

I try to avoid speed duels on the freeway but the curious thing

is

that all my speeding tickets are when I am quietly driving along on

my

own.

 

when I am in a high speed duel, darting in and out of lanes

at near 100 m.p.h.

the police are never

about.

 

when I get tagged for speeding it is for cruising along,

day-dreaming, at a mere 70

m.p.h.

 

I received 3 such nonsensical tickets in 3 weeks so

I laid low for some time—2 years, in fact, but today

out there

there was a fellow in a bright red car, I have no idea what

model or kind

and I have no idea of how it all started but I believe that

I started it:

I was in the fast lane going about 70

and I caught the flash of bright red in my rear view and

as he swung out to pass me on the right

he was doing 75

and there was time for him to pass

then cut into the fast lane ahead of me

but
something
made me hit the throttle and cut him

off

locking him in behind an old lady with a CHRIST

SAVES bumper sticker.

this seemed to piss him no end

and next I knew he had swung over on my bumper,

so close that his windshield and my taillights

seemed one.

this pissed
me
no end and I was being blocked by a

green Volks directly ahead

but I cut right through an opening and shot

ahead.

bright red went wild, spotted the far lane open,

roared over and gunned it

along.

 

after that, it was just me and bright red

jockeying for spots.

 

he would garner a lead, then with a crazy gamble

of lane change I would regain the

lead.

 

during this duel my destination was forgotten and I’m sure his was

too.

 

watching him, I couldn’t help but admire his driving

skill; he took a few more chances than I

but I had a little bit the better machine

so it

just about evened out.

 

then

suddenly

we were alone: a freak break in the traffic

had set us free together

and we really opened

up.

 

he had a short lead but my machine slowly gained; I

inched up near him,

then I was at his side and I couldn’t help but

look over.

 

he was a young Japanese-American, maybe 18, 19

and I looked at him and

laughed.

I saw him check me out.

he saw a 70 year old white man

with a face like

Frankenstein.

 

the young man took his foot off the throttle and

dropped back.

 

I let him go.

 

I turned the radio

on.

 

I was 18 miles past my destination but it

didn’t matter.

 

it was a beautiful sunny day.

 

it was a New Year’s Eve party at my place

I think.

I was standing holding a drink when

this slender young fellow walked up

he was a bit drunk he said

 

“Hank, I met a woman who said

she was married to you for 2

years.”

 

“really?

what was her

name?”

 

“Lola

Edwards.”

 

“never heard of

her.”

 

“ah, come on, man, she

said…”

 

“don’t know her,

baby…”

 

in fact I didn’t know who

he
was…

 

I drained my drink walked to the kitchen

poured a refill

 

I looked around yes, I was at my place

I recognized the

kitchen.

another

Happy New Year.

 

Jesus.

 

I walked out to face the

people.

 

it was hardly a wilderness area

but it was countryside

and there had been a paucity of

rainfall—also some housing

construction on the

hillsides.

 

small game was dying

out.

the coyotes were the first of

the famished to

arrive

looking for

chickens

cats

anything.

 

in fact, a group attacked

a man on horseback

tearing his arm

but he

escaped.

 

then

in a park

there was the lady who

left her car to

go to the public

restroom.

 

she had closed the stall

door

when she heard a

soft

sound,

the stealth of

padded

feet.

 

then

as she sat there

the mountain lion stuck

his head under the

stall door.

 

a truly beautiful

animal.

 

then

the head withdrew, the cat

knocked over a trash can, circled,

emitted a slow

growl.

 

the lady climbed up

on the toilet

then grasped an overhead

pipe

and

swung herself completely up

(fear creates abnormal

acts) and sat where

she could watch

the cat.

 

at once

the cat put his

paws up

on the wash basin

stuck his head in

there

and lapped at a dripping

spigot.

 

then

he sank

low upon the floor

crouched

facing the doorway

 

then

zing

was gone

out of there.

 

then

at last

the lady began

screaming.

 

when the people

arrived

the cat was nowhere to be

seen.

 

the story made the

newspapers and the television

stations.

 

the story that won’t be told is

that the lady

will never go to the bathroom

again

without thinking of a

mountain

lion.

 

a truly beautiful

animal.

 

come on, let’s go see him, this old guy is a

kick in the ass, 50 years old, he sits around

in his shorts and underwear

drinking wine out of this chipped white

cup.

he sits with the shades pulled down and

he’s never owned a tv set.

the only time he goes out is for more

wine

or to the racetrack in his baby blue

’58 Comet.

 

you get there and he’s distraught, some woman

has always left forever and

he pretends to play it with bravado but

his little slit eyes are filled with

pain.

 

he’ll pour drinks all around, he just gulps

that crap down and then sometimes he’ll

get up and puke.

it’s really something. you

can hear him for blocks.

then he’ll come out and pour another

drink.

he’ll go on and on drinking

and then once in a while he’ll say something

crazy like, “anything 3 dogs can do, 4 dogs

can do better!”

other things too.

or he’ll smash a glass or a bottle against

the wall.

 

he worked as an orderly in a

hospital for 15 years

then quit.

he never sleeps at night.

 

and for a guy that ugly

I don’t see how he gets all his

women.

and he’s jealous.

just look at one of his women

and he’ll swing on you.

 

then he gets drunk and tells crazy

stories and sings.

and guess what? he writes

poetry.

 

come on, let’s go see him, this old guy

is a kick in the

ass!

 

after two-and-one-half bottles

that have not strengthened my saddened

heart

 

walking from this drunken

darkness

toward the bedroom

thinking of Hamsun who

ate his own flesh to

gain time to

write

 

I trundle into the other

room

an old

man

 

a hellfish in the night

swimming upward

sideways

down.

 

you know: I’m drunk once again

here

listening to Tchaikovsky

on the radio.

Jesus, I heard him 47 years

ago

when I was a starving writer

and here he is

again

and now I am a minor success as

a writer

and death is walking

up and down

this room

smoking my cigars

taking hits of my

wine

as Tchaik is working away

at the
Pathétique,

it’s been some journey

and any luck I’ve had was

because I rolled the dice

right:

I starved for my art, I starved to

gain 5 god-damned minutes, 5 hours,

5 days—

I just wanted to get the word

down;

fame, money, didn’t matter:

I
wanted the word down

and
they
wanted me at a punch press,

a factory assembly line

they wanted me to be a stock boy in a

department store.

 

well, death says, as he walks by,

I’m going to get you anyhow

no matter what you’ve been:

writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher,

sky-diver, I’m going to get

you…

 

o.k. baby, I tell him.

 

we drink together now

as one a.m. slides to 2

a.m. and

only he knows the

moment, but I worked a con

on him: I got my

5 god-damned minutes

and much

more.