The Last Night of the Earth Poems (11 page)

 

finished,

can’t find the handle,

mugged in the backalleys of nowhere,

too many dark days and nights,

too many unkind noons, plus a

steady fixation for

the ladies of death.

 

I am

finished. roll me

up, package

me,

toss me

to the birds of Normandy or the

gulls of Santa Monica, I

no longer

read

I

no longer

breed,

I

talk to old men over quiet

fences.

 

is this where my suicide complex

uncomplexes?:

as

I am asked over the telephone:

did you ever know Kerouac?

 

I now allow cars to pass me on the freeway.

I haven’t been in a fist fight for 15 years.

I have to get up and piss 3 times a night.

 

and when I see a sexpot on the street I

only see

trouble.

I am

finished, back to square one,

drinking alone and listening to classical

music.

 

much about dying is getting ready.

the tiger walks through my dreams.

the cigarette in my mouth just exploded.

 

curious things still do

occur.

 

no, I never knew Kerouac.

 

so you see:

my life wasn’t

useless

after

all.

 

when I think of the things I endured trying to be a

writer—all those rooms in all those cities,

nibbling on tiny bits of food that wouldn’t

keep a rat

alive.

 

I was so thin I could slice bread with my

shoulderblades, only I seldom had

bread…

meanwhile, writing things down

again and again

on pieces of paper.

 

and when I moved from one place to

another

my cardboard suitcase was just

that: paper outside stuffed with

paper inside.

each new landlady would

ask, “what do you

do?”

 

“I’m a writer.”

 

“oh…”

 

as I settled into tiny rooms to evoke my

craft

many of them pitied me, gave me little

tidbits like apples, walnuts,

peaches…

little did they know

that that

was about all that I

ate.

but their pity ended when

they found cheap wine bottles in my

place.

 

it’s all right to be a starving writer

but not

a starving writer who

drinks.

drunks are never forgiven

anything.

 

but when the world is closing in very

fast

a bottle of wine seems a very

reasonable friend.

 

ah. all those landladies,

most of them heavy, slow, their husbands

long dead, I can still see those

dears

climbing up and down the stairways of

their world.

 

they ruled my very existence:

without them allowing me

an extra week on the rent

now and then,

I was out on the

street

 

and I couldn’t WRITE

on the street.

it was very important to have a

room, a door, those

walls.

 

oh, those dark mornings

in those beds

listening to their footsteps

listening to them cough

hearing the flushing of their

toilets, smelling the cooking of

their food

while waiting

for some word

on my submissions to New York City

and the world,

my submissions to those educated,

intelligent, snobbish, inbred,

formal, comfortable people

out there

 

they truly took their time to

say, no.

 

yes, in those dark beds

with the landladies rustling about

puttering and snooping, sharpening

utensils,

I often thought of those editors and

publishers out there

who didn’t recognize

what I was trying to say

in my special

way

 

and I thought, they must be

wrong.

 

then this would be followed

with a thought much worse

than that:

 

I could be a

fool:

 

almost every writer thinks

they are doing

exceptional work.

that’s

normal.

 

being a fool is

normal.

 

and then I’d

get out of bed

find a piece of

paper

and start

writing

again.

 

my father eating.

 

his ears moved.

 

he munched with great vigor.

 

I wished him in hell.

 

I watched the fork in his hand.

I watched it put food into his mouth.

 

the food I ate was tasteless and deadly.

his small bits of conversation entered my head.

the words ran down my spine.

they spilled into my shoes.

 

“eat your food, Henry,” my mother said.

 

he said, “many people are starving and don’t eat as well as us!”

 

I wished him in hell.

I watched his fork.

it gathered more food and put it into his mouth.

he chewed in a dog-like fashion.

his ears moved.

 

the brutal beatings he gave me I was ready for.

but watching him eat brought on the darkness.

there at the tablecloth.

there with the green and blue wooden napkin holders.

 

“eat your food or I’ll strop your god damned ass,” he told me.

 

later in life I made him pay somewhat.

but he still owes me.

 

and I’ll never collect.

 

hell is built

piece by piece

brick by brick

around

you.

it’s a gradual,

not a rapid

process.

 

we build our

own

inferno,

blame

others.

 

but hell is

hell.

 

wordly hell is

hell.

 

my hell and

your

hell.

 

our

hell.

 

hell, hell,

hell.

 

the song of

hell.

 

putting your

shoes on

in the

morning.

hell.

 

running out of days

as the banister glints

in the early morning sun.

 

there will be no rest

even in our dreams.

 

now, all there is to do is

reset

broken moments.

 

when even to exist seems a

victory

then surely our luck has

run thin

 

thinner than a bloody stream

toward death.

 

life is a sad song:

we have heard too many

voices

seen too many

faces

too many

bodies

 

worst have been the faces:

a dirty joke that no one

can understand.

 

barbaric, senseless days total

in your skull;

reality is a juiceless

orange.

there is no plan

no out

no divinity

no sparrow of

joy.

 

we can’t compare life to

anything—that’s

too dreary a

prospect.

 

relatively speaking,

we were never short on

courage

 

but, at best, the odds

remained long

and

at worst,

unchangeable.

 

and what was worst:

not that we wasted

it

but that it was

wasted

on us:

 

coming out of

the Womb

trapped

in light and

darkness

 

stricken and numbed

 

alone in the temperate zone of

dumb agony

now

 

running out of days

as the banister glints

in the early morning sun.

 

the boy was going to take the bus out

to see the

Graceland Mansion

 

then

the Greyhound Lines went

on strike.

 

there were only two clerks

and two lines

at the station

and the lines were

50 to 65 people

long.

 

after two hours in line

one of the clerks told the

boy

that his bus

would leave

as soon as the substitute

driver arrived.

 

“when will that be?” the

boy asked.

 

“we can’t

be certain,” the

clerk answered.

 

the boy slept on the floor

that night

but by 9 a.m.

the next morning

the substitute driver

still had not

arrived.

the boy had to wait

in another line

to get to the

toilet.

 

he finally got a

stall, carefully

fitted the

sanitary toilet seat

paper cover,

pulled down his

pants,

his shorts

and

sat down.

 

luckily

the boy had a

pencil.

 

he found a clean

space

among all the

smeared and demented

scrawlings and

drawings

 

and very

carefully

and

heavily

he printed:

 

HEARTBREAK HOTEL

 

then he dropped the

first

one.