Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (5 page)

 

the territory of the diamond and the territory of the

cross and the territory of the spider and the territory of

the butcher

divided by the territory of you and me

subtracted from the territory of mathematical

reality

multiplied by those tombstones in the

moonlight

 

 

just going on

is a greater gut-miracle than the life-death cycle

itself, I mean

going on against uselessness—

that’s different than living,

say, the way a fly lives;

the brain gives us enough light to know

that living is only an artful sacrifice

at best. at worst, it’s

hogs in the sky.

 

 

the territory of the darning needle

the territory of the mustard jar

the territory of mad dogs and love gone stale

 

 

the territory of you and me

 

 

each evening bent like the point of a thumb tack

that will no longer stick

in

each kiss a hope of returning to the first kiss

each fuck the same

each person nailed against diminishing

returns

we are slaves to hopes that have run to

garbage

as old age

arrives on schedule.

 

 

the territory of meeting and leaving

the territory of you and me

death arrived on schedule on a

Sunday afternoon, and,

as always,

it was easier than we thought

it would be.

 

 

the white poets usually knock quite early

and keep knocking and ringing

ringing and knocking

even though all the shades are down;

finally I arise with my hangover

figuring such persistency

must mean good fortune, a prize of some

sort—female or monetary,

“aw right! aw right!” I shout

looking for something to cover my ugly

naked body. sometimes I must vomit first,

then gargle; the gargle only makes me vomit again.

I forget it—go to the door—

“hello?”

“you Bukowski?”

“yeh. come in.”

 

 

we sit and look at each other—

he very vigorous and young—

latest blooming clothes—

all colors and silk—

face like a weasel—

“you don’t remember me?” he

asks.

“no.”

“I was here before. you were rather short. you didn’t like my

poems.”

“there are plenty of reasons for not liking

poems.”

“try these.”

he put them on me. they were flatter than the paper they were typed

upon. there wasn’t a tick or a

flare. not a sound. I’d never read

less.

 

 

“uh,” I said, “uh-uh.”

 

 

“you mean you don’t LIKE

them?”

 

 

“there’s nothing there—it’s like a pot of evaporated piss.”

he took the papers, stood up and walked

around. “look, Bukowski. I’ll put some broads from Malibu on

you, broads like you’ve never

seen.”

 

 

“oh yeah, baby?” I asked.

 

 

“yeah, yeah,” he

said.

 

 

and ran out the

door.

 

 

his Malibu broads were like his

poems: they

never arrived.

 

 

the black poets

young

come to my door—

“you Bukowski?”

“yeh. come in.”

 

 

they sit and look around at the

destroyed room

and at

me.

 

 

they hand me their poems.

I read

them.

 

 

“no,” I say and hand them

back.

 

 

“you don’t like

them?”

 

 

“no.”

 

 

“’roi Jones came down to see us at our

workshop…”

 

 

“I hate,” I say,

“workshops.”

 

 

“…Leroi Jones, Ray Bradbury, lots of big

boys…they said this stuff was

good…”

 

 

“it’s bad poetry, man. they are powdering your

ass.”

 

 

“there’s this big film-writer too. he started the whole

idea: Watts Writers’ Workshop.”

 

 

“ah, god, don’t you
see
? they are tickling your

assholes! you should have burned the whole town

down! I’m sick of it!”

 

 

“you just don’t understand

the poems…”

 

 

“I do, they are rhymers, full of

platitudes. you write bad

poetry.”

 

 

“look muthafucka, I been on the radio, I been printed in the
L.A.

Times
!”

 

 

“oh?”

 

 

“well, that happened to

you?”

 

 

“no.”

 

 

“o.k., muthafucka, you ain’t seen the
last
of

me!”

 

 

I suppose I haven’t. and it’s useless to tell you that I am not

anti-black

because

somehow

that’s when the whole subject becomes

sickening.

 

 

you

no faces

no faces

at all

laughing at nothing—

let me tell you

I have drunk in skidrow rooms with

imbecile winos

whose cause was better

whose eyes still held some light

whose voices retained some sensibility,

and when the morning came

we were sick but not ill,

poor but not deluded,

and we stretched in our beds and rose

in the late afternoons

like millionaires.

 

 

the bus driver grins while sweating in the heat

of the plateglass windshield,

he doesn’t have a chance—

only Hollywood Boulevard, an impossible sun

and an impossible timetable,

there are so many without a chance.

I realize that there is very little chance

for any of

us. poetry won’t save us or a job won’t save us,

a good job or a bad

job.

we take a little bit and hang onto that until it is

gone.

gongs ring, dances begin, there are holidays and

celebrations…

we try to cheat the bad dream…

poetry, you whore, who will go to any man and then

leave him…

the bus driver has Hollywood Boulevard

I sit next to a fat lady who lays her dead thigh

against me.

there is a tiny roll of sweat behind one of the bus driver’s

ears. he is ashamed to brush it

away.

the people look ahead or read or look out their

windows.

the tiny roll of sweat begins to roll

it rolls along behind the ear

then down the neck,

then it’s

gone.

Vine street, says the bus driver,

this is Vine

street.

he’s right, at last. what a marvelous thing.

I get off at Vine Street. I need a drink or something

to eat. I don’t care about the bus

anymore. it is a

rejected poem. I don’t need it

anymore.

there will be more busses.

I decide upon something to eat

with a drink as

openers.

 

 

I walk out of the dark and into the dark

and sit down and

wait.

 

 

he came up on the porch

with a grinning subnormal type

and they stood there

drunk on wine.

the painter had his coat wrapped around something,

then pulled the coat away—

it was a policeman’s helmet

complete with badge.

“gimme 20 bucks for this,” he said.

“fuck off, man,” I said, “what do I want with a

cop’s derby?”

“ten bucks,” he said.

“did you kill him?”

“5 bucks…”

“what happened to that 6 grand you made

at your art show last month?”

“I drank it. all in the same bar.”

“and I never got a beer,” I said.

“2 bucks…”

“did you kill him?”

“we ganged him, punched him around a bit…”

“that’s chickenshit. I don’t want the headpiece.”

“we’re 18 cents short of a bottle, man…”

 

 

I gave the painter 35 cents

keeping the chain on the door, slipping it to him

with my fingers. he lived with his mother,

beat his girlfriend regularly

and really didn’t paint that

well. but I suppose a lot of obnoxious characters

work their way into

immortality.

 

 

I’m working on it myself.

 

 

in the bathtub rereading Céline’s

Journey to the End of the Night

the phone rings

and I get out

grab a towel.

some guy from
SMART SET
,

he wants to know what’s in my mailbox

how my life has been

going.

I tell him there isn’t anything in the

mailbox or the

life.

he thinks that I’m holding

back. I hope that

I am.

 

 

my friend William is a fortunate man:

he lacks the imagination to suffer

 

 

he kept his first job

his first wife

 

 

can drive a car 50,000 miles

without a brake job

 

 

he dances like a swan

and has the prettiest blankest eyes

this side of El Paso

 

 

his garden is a paradise

the heels of his shoes are always level

and his handshake is firm

 

 

people love him

 

 

when my friend William dies

it will hardly be from madness or cancer

 

 

he’ll walk right past the devil

and into heaven

 

 

you’ll see him at the party tonight

grinning

over his martini

 

 

blissful and delightful

as some guy

fucks his wife in the

bathroom.