Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit (8 page)

 

wooden butterfly

baking soda smile

sawdust fly—

I love my belly

and the liquor store man

calls me,

“Mr. Schlitz.”

the cashiers at the race track

scream,

“THE POET KNOWS!”

when I cash my tickets.

the ladies

in and out of bed

say they love me

as I walk by with wet

white feet.

 

 

albatross with drunken eyes

Popeye’s dirt-stained shorts

bedbugs of Paris,

I have cleared the barricades

have mastered the

automobile

the hangover

the tears

but I know

the final doom

like any schoolboy viewing

the cat being crushed

by passing traffic.

 

 

my skull has an inch and a

half crack right at the

dome.

most of my teeth are

in front. I get

dizzy spells in supermarkets

spit blood when I drink

whiskey

and become saddened to

the point of

grief

when I think of all the

good women I have known

who have

dissolved

vanished

over trivialities:

trips to Pasadena,

children’s picnics,

toothpaste caps down

the drain.

 

 

there is nothing to do

but drink

play the horse

bet on the poem

 

 

as the young girls

become women

and the machineguns

point toward me

crouched

behind walls thinner

than eyelids.

 

 

there’s no defense

except all the errors

made.

 

 

meanwhile

I take showers

answer the phone

boil eggs

study motion and waste

and feel as good

as the next while

walking in the sun.

 

 

16 and one-half inch

neck

68 years old

lifts weights

body like a young

boy (almost)

 

 

kept his head

shaved

and drank port wine

from half-gallon jugs

 

 

kept the chain on the

door

windows boarded

 

 

you had to give

a special knock

to get in

 

 

he had brass knucks

knives

clubs

guns

 

 

he had a chest like a

wrestler

never lost his

glasses

 

 

never swore

never looked for

trouble

 

 

never married after the death

of his only

wife

hated

cats

roaches

mice

humans

 

 

worked crossword

puzzles

kept up with the

news

 

 

that 16 and one-half inch

neck

 

 

for 68 he was

something

 

 

all those boards

across the windows

 

 

washed his own underwear

and socks

 

 

my friend Red took me up

to meet him

one night

 

 

we talked a while

together

 

 

then we left

 

 

Red asked, “what do you

think?”

 

 

I answered, “more afraid to die

than the rest of us.”

 

 

I haven’t seen either of them

since.

 

I walked down the street for a submarine

sandwich

and this guy pulled out of the driveway

of The Institute of Sexual Education

and almost ran over my toes

with his bike;

he had a black dirty beard

eyes like a Russian pianist

and the breath of an East Kansas City whore;

it irritated me to be almost murdered by a

fool in a sequin jacket;

I looked upstairs and the girls sat in their chairs

outside their doors

dreaming old Greta Garbo movies;

I put a half a buck into one of the paper racks

and got the latest sex paper;

then I went into the sandwich shop

and ordered the submarine

and a large coffee.

they were all sitting in there talking about

how to lose weight.

I asked for a sideorder of

french fries.

the girls in the sex paper ads

looked like girls in sex paper ads.

they told me not to be lonely

that they could fix me up:

I could beat them with chains or whips

or they could beat me

with chains or whips, whichever way

I wanted it.

I finished, paid up, left a tip,

left the sex paper on the seat.

then I walked back up Western Avenue

with my belly hanging out over

my belt.

 

neatly in tune with

the song of a fish

I stand in the kitchen

halfway to madness

dreaming of Hemingway’s

Spain.

it’s muggy, like they say,

I can’t breathe,

have crapped and

read the sports pages,

opened the refrigerator

looked at a piece of purple

meat,

tossed it back

in.

 

 

the place to find the center

is at the edge

that pounding in the sky

is just a water pipe

vibrating.

 

 

terrible things inch in the

walls; cancer flowers grow

on the porch; my white cat has

one eye torn

away and there are only 7 days

of racing left in the

summer meet.

 

 

the dancer never arrived from the

Club Normandy

and Jimmy didn’t bring the

hooker,

but there’s a postcard from

Arkansas

and a throwaway from Food King:

10 free vacations to Hawaii,

all I got to do is

fill out the form.

but I don’t want to go to

Hawaii.

 

 

I want the hooker with the pelican eyes

brass belly-button

and

ivory heart.

 

 

I take out the piece of purple

meat

drop it into the

pan.

 

 

then the phone rings.

 

 

I fall to one knee and roll under the

table. I remain there

until it

stops.

 

 

then I get up and

turn on the

radio.

no wonder Hemingway was a

drunk, Spain be damned,

I can’t stand it

either.

 

 

it’s so

muggy.

 

 

I see old people on pensions in the

supermarkets and they are thin and they are

proud and they are dying

they are starving on their feet and saying

nothing. long ago, among other lies,

they were taught that silence was

bravery. now, having worked a lifetime,

inflation has trapped them. they look around

steal a grape

chew on it. finally they make a tiny

purchase, a day’s worth.

another lie they were taught:

thou shalt not steal.

they’d rather starve than steal

(one grape won’t save them)

and in tiny rooms

while reading the market ads

they’ll starve

they’ll die without a sound

pulled out of roominghouses

by young blond boys with long hair

who’ll slide them in

and pull away from the curb, these

boys

handsome of eye

thinking of Vegas and pussy and

victory.

it’s the order of things: each one

gets a taste of honey

then the knife.

 

 

I can’t pick anything up

off the floor—

old socks

shorts

shirts

newspapers

letters

spoons bottles beercaps

 

 

can’t make the bed

hang up the toilet paper

brush my teeth

comb my hair

dress

 

 

I stay on the bed

naked

on the soiled sheets

which are half on the

floor

the buttons on the mattress

press into my

back

 

 

when the phone rings

when somebody comes to the door

I anger

 

 

I’m like a bug under a rock

with that fear too

 

 

I stay in bed

notice the mirror on the dresser

 

 

it is a victory to scratch

myself.

 

 

got 3 women coming down in

July, maybe more

they want to suck my blood-

vibes

 

 

do I have enough

clean towels?

 

 

I told them that I was feeling

bad

(I didn’t expect all these

mothers

arriving with their tits

distended)

 

 

you see

I am too good

with the drunken letter

and the drunken phonecall

screaming for love

when I probably don’t

have it

 

 

I am going out to buy more

towels

bedsheets

Alka-Seltzer

washrags

mop handles

mops

swords

knives

bombs

vaseline flowers of yearning

the works of

De Sade.