The Last Night of the Earth Poems (10 page)

 

Jack London drinking his life away while

writing of strange and heroic men.

Eugene O’Neill drinking himself oblivious

while writing his dark and poetic

works.

 

now our moderns

lecture at universities

in tie and suit,

the little boys soberly studious,

the little girls with glazed eyes

looking

up,

the lawns so green, the books so dull,

the life so dying of

thirst.

 

this man sometimes forgets who

he is.

sometimes he thinks he’s the

Pope.

 

other times he thinks he’s a

hunted rabbit

and hides under the

bed.

 

then

all at once

he’ll recapture total

clarity

and begin creating

works of

art.

 

then he’ll be all right

for some

time.

 

then, say,

he’ll be sitting with his

wife

and 3 or 4 other

people

discussing various

matters

 

he will be charming,

incisive,

original.

 

then he’ll do

something

strange.

like once

he stood up

unzipped

and began

pissing

on the

rug.

 

another time

he ate a paper

napkin.

 

and there was

the time

he got into his

car

and drove it

backwards

all the way to

the

grocery store

and back

again

backwards

the other motorists

screaming at

him

but he

made it

there and

back

without

incident

and without

being

stopped

by a patrol

car.

but he’s best

as the

Pope

and his

Latin

is very

good.

 

his works of

art

aren’t that

exceptional

but they allow him

to

survive

and to live with

a series of

19-year-old

wives

who

cut his hair

his toenails

bib

tuck and

feed

him.

 

he wears everybody

out

but

himself.

 

eating out tonight

I find a table alone

and while waiting for my order

take out my wife’s copy of

A Poet in New York
.

I often carry things to read

so that I will not have to look at

the people.

 

I find the poems bad (for me)

these poems written in 1929

the year of the stock market

crash.

 

I close the book and look at

the people.

 

my order arrives.

the food is bad too.

 

some say that bad and good

run in streaks.

 

I hope so.

I wait for the good, put a slice of

lemon chicken into my

mouth, chew

and pretend that everything is

fairly

fine.

 

I just sat in the bar

non compos mentis.

 

it was about a week before

Xmas.

big Ed was selling trees

outside.

 

he came into the

bar.

 

“Jesus, it’s freezing out

there!”

 

big Ed looked at me.

 

“Hank, you go stand out there

with the trees.

if anybody wants to buy

one, you come in and

get me.”

 

I stood outside.

 

I was in my shirt sleeves.

I didn’t have a coat.

it was snowing.

it was ice cold

but a nice ice

cold.

I wasn’t used to snow

but I liked the snow.

 

I stood with the trees.

 

I stood there about 20

minutes

then big Ed came

out.

 

“nobody come by?”

 

“no, Ed.”

 

“you go on in, tell Billy Boy

to give you a drink on

my tab.”

 

I walked in

got a stool.

 

I told Billy Boy,

“double scotch and water,

Ed’s tab.”

 

Billy Boy poured.

 

“you sell any trees?”

 

“no trees.”

 

Billy Boy looked at

 

the patrons.

 

“hey, Hank didn’t sell

no trees.”

 

“whatsa matter, Hank?”

somebody asked.

 

I didn’t answer.

I took a hit of my

drink.

 

“how come no trees were

sold?” somebody else

asked.

“as the bee swarms to

honey, as night follows

day

in the stink of time,

it will

happen.”

 

“what will happen?”

 

“somebody will sell a tree

though it won’t necessarily

be me.”

 

I finished my drink.

 

there was

silence.

 

then somebody said,

“this guy is some kind of

nut.”

 

being there

with those

I decided

I had no argument

with

that.

 

self-congratulatory nonsense as the

famous gather to applaud their seeming

greatness

 

you

wonder where

the real ones are

 

what

giant cave

hides them

 

as

the deathly talentless

bow to

accolades

 

as

the fools are

fooled

again

 

you

wonder where

the real ones are

 

if there are

real ones.

 

this

self-congratulatory nonsense

has lasted

decades

and

with some exceptions

 

centuries.

this

is so dreary

is so absolutely pitiless

 

it

churns the gut to

powder

shackles hope

 

it

makes little things

like

pulling up a shade

or

putting on your shoes

or

walking out on the street

 

more difficult

near

damnable

 

as

the famous gather to

applaud their

seeming

greatness

 

as

the fools are

fooled

again

 

humanity

you sick

motherfucker.

 

to reach here

gliding into old age

the decades gone

without ever meeting one person

truly evil

without ever meeting one person

truly exceptional

without ever meeting one person

truly good

 

gliding into old age

 

the decades gone

 

the mornings are the worst.

 

a warrior

I come in from a long but

victorious day

at the track.

 

she greets me with some

trash

which I carry and dump

into the garbage

can.

 

“Jesus Christ,” she says,

“push the lid down tight!

the ants will be

everywhere!
”

 

I push the lid down tight.

 

I think of Amsterdam.

I think of pigeons flying from a

roof.

I think of Time dangling from

a

paper clip.

 

she’s right, of course: the lid

should be

tight.

 

I walk slowly back

into

the

house.

 

waiting for death

like a cat

that will jump on the

bed

 

I am so very sorry for

my wife

 

she will see this

stiff

white

body

 

shake it once, then

maybe

again:

 

“Hank!”

 

Hank won’t

answer.

 

it’s not my death that

worries me, it’s my wife

left with this

pile of

nothing.

 

I want to

let her know

though

that all the nights

sleeping

beside her

 

even the useless

arguments

were things

ever splendid

 

and the hard

words

I ever feared to

say

can now be

said:

 

I love

you.