The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (9 page)

 

the best way to think is not at all—

my banjo screams in the brush

like a trapped rabbit (do rabbits

scream? never mind: this is an

alcoholic dream);

machine guns, I say,

the altarboys,

the wet nurses,

the fat newsboys,

rubber-lipped delegates

of the precious life;

my banjo screams

sing

sing through the darkened dream,

green grow green,

take gut:

death, at last,

is no headache.

 

 

long walks at

night—

that’s what’s good

for the

soul:

peeking into windows

watching tired

housewives

trying to fight

off

their beer-maddened

husbands.

 

 

the sharks knock on my door

and enter and ask favors;

how they puff in my chairs

looking about the room,

and they ask for deeds:

light, air, money,

anything they can get—

beer, cigarettes, half dollars, dollars,

fives, dimes,

all this as if my survival were assured,

as if my time were nothing

and their presence valuable.

 

 

well, we all have our sharks, I’m sure,

and there’s only one way to get them off

before they hack and nibble you to death—

stop feeding them; they will find

other bait; you fattened them

the last dozen times around—

now set them out

to sea.

 

 

he wrote,

you are a humorless ass,

I was only pulling your leg about D.

joining the Foreign Legion, and

D. is about as much fag as

Winston Churchill.

 

 

hmm, I thought, I am in contact with the

greatest minds of my

generation. clever! Winnie is dead so he

can’t be a

fag.

 

 

the letter continued,

you guys in California are fag-happy,

all you do is sit around and think about

fags. just the same I will send you the anti-war

materials I and others wrote, although I

doubt it will stop the

war.

 

 

10 years ago he had sent me a photo of

D. and himself at a picnic ground.

D. was dressed in a Foreign Legion uniform,

there was a bottle of wine,

and a table with one tableleg

crooked.

 

 

I thought it over for 10 years and then

answered:

I have nothing against 2 men sleeping together

so long as I am not one of those 2

men.

 

 

I didn’t infer which one was the

fag.

 

 

anyway, today I got the anti-war materials

in the mail, but he’s right:

it won’t stop the war or anything

else.

 

 

found it difficult

either to stand or

to bend over

 

 

was fat with

big eyes and

low

forehead

had a perennial

smile

due to an

underslung

jaw

 

 

killed his eldest son

with blows

in a moment

of anger

 

 

appeared to be uncomfortable

after the age

of

40

 

 

excelled in progress

and

butchery

 

 

died in 1584

at the age of

54, weighing

209

pounds

 

 

last summer

they removed his

skeleton

from the Arkhangelsk Church

in the Kremlin

to make a

lifelike

bust

 

 

now

he’s almost done

and looks like

a 20th century

bus driver

 

 

(for J.B. who never read the stuff)

 

 

the bones of my uncle

rode a motorcycle in Arcadia

and raped a housewife

within a garage

hung with rakes and hoses

the bones of my Uncle

left behind

1: a jar of peanut butter

and

2: two girls named

Katherine &

Betsy and

3: a ragged wife who cried

continually.

the bones of my Uncle

played horses

too

and

made counterfeit money—

mostly dimes, and the F.B.I. wanted him for

something more serious

although what it was

I have since

forgotten.

the bones of my Uncle

stretched the long way

seemed too short

and looked at

coming toward you

bent like bows

beneath the knees.

 

 

the bones of my Uncle

smoked and cussed

and they were buried

where bones are buried

who have no

money.

 

 

I almost forgot to tell you:

his bones were named “John”

and

had green eyes

which did not

last.

 

 

it was about 10 years ago at Hollywood Park—

I had a shackjob, 2 cars, a house, a dog as big as Nero drunk,

and I was making it with the horses, or I thought I was,

but going into the 7th race I was down to my last $50

and I put the $50 on Determine and then I wanted a cup of coffee

but I only had a dime left and coffee was then 15¢.

 

 

I went into the crapper and I wanted to flush myself away,

they had me, all I had left was that piece of paper in my wallet,

and I would have been willing to sell that back for $40

but I was ashamed. well, I went out and watched the race

and Determine won.

 

 

I collected and set aside a ten and put the remainder all on

My Boy Bobby. My Boy Bobby made it. I collected and stood over in

a corner, separating the 50s and the 20s and tens and fives,

and then I drove on in, I gave her the thumb up as I drove up the drive,

and when I got inside I threw all the money up into the air.

 

 

She was a beautiful whore and her eyes almost came out when she saw

that, and the dog ran in and snatched a ten and ran into the kitchen,

and I was pouring drinks and she said, “hey, the hound got a tenner!”

and I said, “hell, let him have it!” we drank ’em down.

then I said, “umm, I think I’ll get that ten anyhow,” and I walked in

and took it from him, it was only chewed a little, and that night

on the bed she showed me all the tricks in wonderland, and later

it rained and we listened to Carmen and drank and laughed all night long.

 

 

days and nights like that just don’t happen too often.

 

 

I haven’t slept

for 3 nights

or 3 days

and my eyes are more

red than white;

I laugh in the

mirror,

and I have been

listening to the clock

tick

and the gas

of my heater

smells

a hot thick

heavy

smell, run

through with the sounds

of cars,

cars strung up

like ornaments

in my head, but

I have read

the classics

and on my couch

sleeps a wine-soaked

whore

who for the first

time

has heard

Beethoven’s 9th,

and bored,

has fallen asleep,

politely

listening.

 

 

just think, daddy, she said,

with your brains

you might be the first man

to copulate

on the moon.

 

 

life on paper is so much more

pleasurable:

there are no bombs or flies or

landlords or starving

cats,

and I am in the kitchen

staring down at the blue lake of the

concertmaster

and also the trees

rowboats, boy with American flag

lady in yellow with fan

Civil War veteran

girl with balloon

spotted dog

sailboat,

the peace of an ancient day

with the sun dreaming old

battles—

John L. Sullivan emptying the pint

in his dressing room

and getting ready to whip the world like a

bad child—

far from our modern life

where a doctor sticks something in your side,

saying, “is something making you nervous? something is

killing you.”

 

 

I open the matchbox, take out a beautiful wooden match

and light a cigar.

I look out the window. it is raining, there will be nothing

in the park today except bums and madmen.

I blow the smoke against the wet glass and wonder what I am doing

inside here

dry and dying and

I hear the rain as a toilet flushes through the wall

(a living neighbor)

and the flowers open their arms for love.

 

 

I sit down next to the lady in yellow with the fan and

she smiles at me

and we talk we talk

only I can’t hear for all the music

“your name? your name?” I keep asking

but she only smiles at me

and the dog is howling.

 

 

but yellow is my favorite color

(Van Gogh liked it too)

yellow

and I do not blow smoke in her face

and I am there

I am actually down there in the matchbox

and I am here too.

 

 

she smiles

and I lay her right on the

stove

and it is

hot

hot

the American flag waves in

battle—

play your music concertmaster

in your red coat

with your hot July buttocks.

 

 

the balloon pops and I walk across a kitchen

on a rainy day in February

to check on eggs and bread and

wine and sanity

 

 

to check on glue

to paste nice pictures

on these walls.