The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (8 page)

 

the snake had crawled the hole,

and she said,

tell me about

yourself.

 

 

and

I said,

I was beaten down

long ago

in some alley

in another

world.

 

 

and she said,

we’re all

like pigs

slapped down some lane,

our

grassbrains

singing

toward the

blade.

 

 

by

god,

you’re an

odd one,

I said.

we

sat there

smoking

cigarettes

at

5

in the morning.

 

 

it is a page of reptiles, green pink fuchsia

slime motif

sexual organs

lips teeth fangs

in the grass of my brain

bringing down 1917 Spads,

games with toy cars

in a boy’s backyard;

and eggs eggs eggs

of the hognose snake

she circles them in the sun,

life is an electric whip,

and ha!—the copperhead

he looks about, tiny brain

in the air searching

a wiseness as small as

seething to stroke a death;

and the horned toad:

fat little shitter in

fake armour

he blinks blinks

blinks in the sun

watching the flies

he is a tired old man

beyond hardly caring—

he just looks and waits

very dry

(wanting storm)

powerless

(without desire for)

ungifted he

waits to be eaten;

and the gila monster

and the collared lizard,

the box turtle,

the chuckwalla,

here they go along the page,

and through rock and cacti

I suppose they are beautiful

in their slow horror,

and at the bottom

an alligator puts his eye upon me

and we look

he and I; he breathes and hungers

on a flat dream, and so

this is the way we will be spread

across the page,—

teeth, title, poesy,

alligator heart,

as the sky falls down.

 

 

I saw them

sitting in the lamplight and

I went in

and

he talked

waving his hands

jesus

his face was red

and

he talked

he wanted to be

right

he waved his hands

but when I left

he just sat there

and

she sat there

in the chair across from him

and

I got into my car

and backed out the drive

and

left them there

to do

whatever

they wanted to

do.

 

 

Did I ever tell you

about the damn fool who

liked to make love

in front of a

picture window?

 

 

And there was the one

who took the phonograph back,

and the one who

broke the lampshades

and the one with the

little golden hairs on his

chest.

 

 

And the one

on the kitchen floor,

and the one who

hunted for the mouth

of the Orinoco River.

 

 

And the tall one who

became a forest ranger

and left a note with Roger

confessing he was queer

(but Roger already knew).

 

 

Then there’s the communist—he’s in

Canada

or Florida, only I think

he’s somebody else under this other

name, and I have a photo of him

crawling out of a rowboat;

he has lovely gray hair and his face

is sort of blue

and he writes these

long love letters.

 

 

And Edward was a queer—but so very gentle;

he lit candles, had a sense of humor and

very hairy legs—like one of those land

crabs

or a coconut.

 

 

And Jerry was just like a horse—

if I looked him in the eye

he couldn’t

kiss me.

(He just pretended he was gay

but he wasn’t.)

(I can tell. Oh, I can always tell.)

 

 

Then there was my desert

romance—I really don’t like to tell

about it, but since you
asked
—

I think he really

loved me.

I got drunk and

fell off my horse

and broke my

arm

when we tried to jump a fence

riding double-saddle

and his wife threatened to

kill me

so

    I

        left town.

I used to go up on the

roof with Manny.

He was strange.

Parents spoiled him.

We looked at the moon through

a telescope: I stood

at the big end

and held it up

and he sat down

at the little end

and looked through it.

 

 

And Carl has my
Drama

Through the Ages, from

Euripides to Miller.

(I must write him for it. You

won’t mind?) That Carl—

 

 

it was my birthday

and I came in

and he was out

cold drunk

on the sofa

and I threw

some flowers at him

(vase and all)

and he stood up

and showed me the tiniest

gold bracelet

in a little felt box,

and I cried.

(Oh yes, I loved him. I really

loved him—he was so kind,

and he was always writing mother—

“Where’s Rita at, please tell me!”

but mother

never told him.)

 

 

Then there was that old bastard German

they never know when to give it up.

He was bald and I hated him,

he looked like a sick frog

and his breath was bad,

but the funniest thing

was all this hair on

his belly. I could never

figure it.

He had plenty of money

but he was married,

the old bastard,

and he told me

he loved me,

and he hired me as a

secretary,

he was always playing around,

the old bastard,

and I finally ran away,

though I
could
have taken him

from his wife

but I couldn’t stand the old

bastard.

 

 

Vincent?

No. He was nothing. He was frightened

of his brother.

“My brother!” he’d scream

and we’d all run out the back door

and into the garage naked

or just in panties and bras.

I made curtains for his house

and he called me daughter

and I cooked for him

and he wrote everything in a little

black book and wore a sailing cap.

He dropped money on the floor

and played the organ…

wrote an opera for Organ

called the
Emperor of San Francisco
.

But I liked him mainly because

he knew the kids,

drove me to Newman once to meet them,

and once, before he got real tight

he sent me money

when I was stranded in the islands.

 

 

And Gus—he was just like a father to me—

I knew him so long.

I met him in the islands

when I was stranded.

I think he saved my life.

I got fired for being caught in the

barracks.

But he understood.

Oh, I know you don’t like him,

but he’s so
understanding.

And when Vincent sent the money

we both came stateside.

He said he wanted to marry me

but he had to take care of his

mother

who had some kind of

lifelong disease.

He’s always running back to

those islands,

so completely lost,

utterly lost.

You’d hardly know him now.

He’s stopped drinking

and weighs 297,

(and he kissed just like you,

and had little wires in his left

leg, but he’d never tell me…)

 

 

…and the chauffeur

walked into the room

with a basket

with a live chicken

in it. This guy grabbed the chicken

around the neck

and whirled it

around and around

and you should have heard

that chicken scream

and then he cut it with a knife

and the blood

flew like rain

and this guy

played his piccolo

and watched my eyes,

and that’s all that happened,

even though he had made me

take off my dress.

He gave me $25

but somehow

the whole thing

made me sick.

 

 

Nicholas was a queer

and impotent,

and he was my lover.

He still has my

e.e. cummings.

The first one was insane.

He blew

through fig leaves

while sitting on the coffee table

his hands tangled in my hair.

He played the oboe

and you know what

they say about the oboe:

they took him away

from me

and he was like a child.

I gave the oboe to a ballet dancer

who broke his

leg on

a camp stool

while

hiking

in the Adirondacks.

 

 

I was engaged to Arlington

only three weeks.

And he tore the ring from my finger

claiming he didn’t

want to marry the whole

queer army.

Later he cried on my shoulder

and told me he was a queen bee

and a general

and that he had been kidding himself

all his life.

I cried when he left.

 

 

Ralph was the only one, I think,

who ever loved me,

but he didn’t appreciate the finer

things:

he thought that Van Gogh used to pitch for

Brooklyn and that George Sand played

opposite Zsa Zsa Gabor.

And when he sent money from East Lansing

I bought a hi-fi set and a toy bull

with blue eyes

and called him Keithy-pot.

I sent Ralph a pressed azalea and a photo

of me

bending over

in a bikini.

 

 

Sherman was afraid of the dark.

He died swallowing a

cherry seed. Roger—I’ve told

you

about him; Roger started

a good story once

but he never finished it.

It was about a queer

sitting at a table

at a night club

and these people came up—

but, oh, I can’t explain it.

 

 

Peter will kill himself some day.

Art will kill himself.

Tommy set fire to the bed and

beat his mother. I only

lived with him

because of her. We went

to Alkaseltzer Mass

together. Once he

hit her when she

got off the streetcar.

Then he hit me. I hated him,

but she was like a mother to me.

And then I met you.

 

 

Remember that Sunday at

the Round Duck?

You said,

let’s go to

    Mexico.

And you took me up

to your place

and read Erie Stanley Gardner

and then you hung out

the window.

You looked like my father.

You should have known my father.

He was a drunkard.

 

 

Oh, I’m so glad I met you.

You make me

feel so

good. Darling
you
are a

man.

The only real

MAN

I’ve
ever
known!

Oh dear, how I’ve

waited!

My hands are cold and

you have the
funniest

feet!

 

 

I love you…