New Poems Book Three (3 page)

I remember, he told me, that when I was 6 or

7 years old my mother was always taking me

to the doctor and saying, “he hasn’t pooped.”

she was always asking me, “have you

pooped?”

it seemed to be her favorite question.

and, of course, I couldn’t lie, I had real problems

pooping.

I was all knotted up inside.

my parents did that to me.

I looked at those huge beings, my father,

my mother, and they seemed really stupid.

sometimes I thought they were just pretending

to be stupid because nobody could really be that

stupid.

but they weren’t pretending.

they had me all knotted up inside like a pretzel.

I mean, I
had
to live with them, they told

me what to do and how to do it and when.

they fed, housed and clothed me.

and worst of all, there was no other place for

me to go, no other choice:

I had to stay with them.

I mean, I didn’t know much at that age

but I could sense that they were lumps

of flesh and little else.

dinnertime was the worst, a nightmare

of slurps, spittle and idiotic conversation.

I looked straight down at my plate and tried

to swallow my food but

it all turned to glue inside.

I couldn’t digest my parents or the food.

that must have been it, for it was hell for me

to poop.

“have you pooped?”

and there I’d be in the doctor’s office once again.

he had a little more sense than my parents but

not much.

“well, well, my little man, so you haven’t pooped?”

he was fat with bad breath and body odor and

had a pocket watch with a large gold chain

that dangled across his gut.

I thought, I bet he poops a load.

and I looked at my mother.

she had large buttocks,

I could picture her on the toilet,

sitting there a little cross-eyed, pooping.

she was so placid, so

like a pigeon.

poopers both, I knew it in my heart.

disgusting people.

“well, little man, you just can’t poop,

huh?”

he made a little joke of it: he could,

she could, the world could.

I couldn’t.

“well, now, we’re going to give you

these pills.

and if they don’t work, then guess

what?”

I didn’t answer.

“come on, little man, tell me.”

all right, I decided to say it.

I wanted to get out of there:

“an enema.”

“an enema,” he smiled.

then he turned to my mother.

“and are you all right, dear?”

“oh, I’m fine, doctor!”

sure she was.

she pooped whenever she wanted.

then we would leave the office.

“isn’t the doctor a nice man?”

no answer from me.

“isn’t he?”

“yes.”

but in my mind I changed it to, yes,

he can poop.

he looked like a poop.

the whole world pooped while I

was knotted up inside like a pretzel.

then we would walk out on the street

and I would look at the people passing

and all the people had behinds.

“that’s all I ever noticed,” he told me,

“it was horrible.”

“we must have had similar

childhoods,” I said.

“somehow, that doesn’t help at all,”

he said.

“we’ve both got to get over this

thing,” I said.

“I’m trying,” he

answered.

parties at my place were

always marred by

violence:

mine.

it was what

attracted

them: the

would-be

writers

and the

would-be

women.

the writers?

the

women? I could always hear

them

buzzing in the far

corners:

“when’s he going to

get mean?

he always

does!”

at all those parties

I enjoyed

the beginnings the

middles

but as each night

unfolded toward

morning

something

somebody

would truly enrage

me

and I’d find myself

picking up some

guy

and

hurling him off the

front porch:

that was

the quickest way to

get rid of

them.

well,

one particular

night

I made up my

mind

to see it

through

to the end

without

untoward

incident

and I was

walking into the

kitchen

for another

drink

when

I was

pounced upon

from

behind

by

Peter the

bookstore

owner.

this bookstore

owner had more

mental problems than

most of

them

and

as he held me

in this excellent

choke-hold from the

rear

his madness gave

him superb

strength

and as the milk-brains

in the other room

babbled on about how to

save the

world

I was being

murdered.

I thought I was

finished.

I saw

bright flashes of

light.

I could no longer

breathe

I felt my heart

beating and my

temples

throb.

like a trapped

animal

I gave it one last

effort

grabbed him

behind the

neck

bent my back

and carried him

like that.

rushed into the

kitchen

ducked my head

low

at the last

moment

and

smashed his skull

against the kitchen

wall.

I steadied myself

a moment

then picked him

up and carried him

into the other

room

and dumped him into

the lap

of his

girlfriend

where from the

safety of her

skirts

this Peter the bookstore

owner

came around and began

crying (yes, he actually

shed tears):

“Hank
hurt
me! he

HURT
me! I was only

FOOLING
!”

I heard cries of dismay

from around the

room:

“you’re a real
bastard
,

Chinaski!”

“Peter sells your books, he

displays them in the

window!”

“Peter
LOVES
you!”

“
O.K.
,” I said, “everybody

out
!
FAST
!”

sure enough, they filed

out

sharing their

anger and disgust

with one

another.

and

I locked the

door

then

put out the

lights

got myself a

beer

and

sat there

in the dark

drinking

alone.

and

I liked that

so

much

that

that’s the way

I continued to

live

from then

on.

there were no more

parties

and

after that

the writing got much

better

everything got much

better

because:

you’ve got to

get rid of

false friends and

bloodsuckers first

before they

destroy

you.

I don’t remember much about them

except you’d look and some guy

might be wearing a headdress of Indian

feathers.

everybody was covered with beads

and were passing joints.

they stretched around on comfortable rugs and

didn’t do anything.

I don’t know how they made the rent.

the woman I was living with was

always telling me, “I’m going to a

Love-In!”

“all right,” I’d tell her.

she’d come back and say something

like, “I met this
BEAUTIFUL BLACK

MAN
!”

or, “we made the cops smile!

I gave one a
FLOWER
!”

I seemed to be the only person with

an 8-hour job.

and there were always people

coming through the door and raiding

my refrigerator for food and beer.

“WE SHARE!”
the woman I lived with

told me,
“
WE SHARE OUR LOVE
!”

a guy would stick his face into mine.

drunk on my beer, he’d scream:

“YOU OUGHTA SEE THE YELLOW

SUBMARINE
!”

“what’s that?” I asked.

“THE BEATLES, MAN, THE

BEATLES
!”

I thought he meant “beetles.”

then there was somebody called

WAVY GRAVY
.

they even talked me into going on

an LSD trip.

I found it to be stupid.

“you failed,” they told me, “you failed,

you didn’t open up.”

“Peace!” I said, “Peace!”

then, I don’t know, all at once

the 60’s seemed to be

over.

almost everybody vanished just like

that.

you’d see a few of the leftovers

now and then

down at Venice Beach,

standing around on corners,

sitting on benches

looking really washed-out,

with very vacant stares,

somehow astonished

at the turn of events.

they slept in cars,

stole what they could

and demanded handouts.

I don’t know where all the others

went.

I think they got suits and ties

and went looking for

the 8-hour job.

the 70’s had arrived.

and that’s when
I
dropped out.

and I had the whole place

all to

myself.

raining, raining, raining.

has been for days.

I have 9 cats, the rain drives them crazy

and then they drive me crazy.

last night at 3:30 one of them began

scratching to get out.

rain and all, he wanted out.

I put him out.

went back to sleep.

then at 4 a.m. the female cat who sleeps in

the bathroom began

mewing.

I sat with her for 5 minutes to calm her down,

then went back to bed.

at 5 a.m. one of the male cats

began scratching.

he had gotten into the closet, found

a bag of cat food, knocked it over and

was trying to claw it open.

I picked him up and put him outside.

I went back to bed and couldn’t sleep.

at 8 a.m. I opened a window and a door so

some cats could get back in and some

could get out.

I slept until 10 a.m. when I got up and fed

all 9 cats.

it was time to get ready for the racetrack,

my daily routine.

I stood at the window and watched the rain

still coming down.

it was 20 miles to the track via the freeway and

through a dangerous area—for whites and

maybe blacks too.

I felt sleep deprived so I decided to go back

to bed.

I did, went right to sleep,

and I dreamt.

I dreamt I was at the racetrack.

I was at the betting window, calling my numbers.

it was raining hard.

I was at the racetrack.

I kept betting and I think I cashed some tickets

but I never saw a horse or a jockey or a horse race.

then I awakened.

it was still raining.

my wife (who is an insomniac) was

sleeping peacefully next to me and there were

4 cats sleeping on the bed and

one on the floor.

we were all sleep deprived.

I looked at the clock: 12:30, too late to make

the track.

I turned on my right side, looked out the

window.

it was still raining, heartlessly,

hopefully, meanly, grossly, continually,

beautifully.

rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.

soon I was asleep again and the world continued to do

very well without

me.

I was up there on the platform,

ready to begin when

up walked Richard Nixon

(or his double)

with that familiar

glazed smile on his face.

he approached me, reached out and

before I could react he

shook my hand.

what is he doing? I thought.

I was about to give him a verbal

dressing down

but before I could do so

he suddenly faded away

and all I could see were the

lights shining in my eyes and

the audience waiting down

there.

my hand was shaking as

I reached out and poured myself

a glass of vodka from the pitcher.

I must be giving this poetry reading

in hell, I thought.

it
was
hell: I drained the glass

but the contents somehow had turned into

water.

I began to read the first poem:

“I wandered lonely as a cloud.”

Wordsworth!