The Last Night of the Earth Poems (13 page)

 

the dogs are at it again; they leap and

tear, back off, circle, then

attack again.

 

and I had thought this was over, I had

thought that they had

forgotten; now there are only

more of them.

 

and I am older,

now

 

but the dogs are

ageless

 

and as always they tear not only at

the flesh but also at

the mind and the spirit.

 

now

they are circling me

in this room.

 

they are not

beautiful; they are the dogs

from hell

 

and they will find you

too

 

even though you are one

of them

now.

 

he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer

night, running the blade of the knife

under his fingernails, smiling, thinking

of all the letters he had received

telling him that

the way he lived and wrote about

that—

it had kept them going when

all seemed

truly

hopeless.

 

putting the blade on the table, he

flicked it with a finger

and it whirled

in a flashing circle

under the light.

 

who the hell is going to save

me? he

thought.

 

as the knife stopped spinning

the answer came:

you’re going to have to

save yourself.

 

still smiling,

a: he lit a

cigarette

b: he poured

another

drink

c: gave the blade

another

spin.

 

I been readin’ you for a long time now,

I just put Billy Boy to bed,

he got 7 mean ticks from somewhere,

I got 2,

my husband, Benny, he got 3.

some of us love bugs, others hate

them.

Benny writes poems.

he was in the same magazine as you

once.

Benny is the world’s greatest writer

but he got this temper.

he gave a readin’ once and somebody

laughed at one of his serious poems

and Benny took his thing out right

there

and pissed on stage.

he says you write good but that you

couldn’t carry his balls in a paper

bag.

anyhow, I made a BIG POT OF MARMALADE

tonight,

we all just LOVE marmalade here.

Benny lost his job yesterday, he told his

boss to stick it up his ass

but I still got my job down at the

manicure shop.

you know fags come in to get their nails

done?

you aren’t a fag, are you, Mr.

Chinaski?

anyhow, I just felt like writing you.

your books are read and read around

here.

Benny says you’re an old fart, you

write pretty good but that you

couldn’t carry his balls in a

paper sack.

do you like bugs, Mr. Chinaski?

I think the marmalade is cool enough to

eat now.

so goodbye.

 

Dora

 

it would be good to get

out of here,

just go,

pop off, get away from

memories of this

and all

that,

but staying has its

flavor too:

all those babes who

thought they were

hot numbers

now living in dirty

flats

while looking forward

to the next

episode on

some Soap Opera,

and all those guys,

those who really

thought

they were going to

make it,

grinning in the

Year Book with their

tight-skinned

mugs,

now they are

cops,

clerk typists,

operators of

sandwich stands,

horse grooms,

plops

in the dust.

it’s good to stay

around

to see what

happened to

all the

others-only

when you go to

the bathroom,

avoid the

mirror

and

don’t look

at

what you

flush

away.

 

the ball comes up to the

plate and I can’t

see

it.

 

my batting average has dropped to

.231

 

small things constantly

irritate me

and I can’t sleep

nights.

 

“you’ll come back,

Harry,” my teammates

tell me.

 

then they grin and are

secretly

pleased.

 

I’ve been benched for a

22 year old

kid.

 

he looks good up there:

power, lots of line

drives.

 

“ever thought of coaching?”

the manager asks.

 

“no,” I tell him, “how about

you?”

 

when I get home my wife

asks, “you get in the lineup

tonight?”

“nope.”

 

“don’t worry, he’ll put you

in.”

 

“no, he won’t. I’m gonna

pinch hit the rest of the

season.”

 

I go into the bathroom and

look into the

mirror.

 

I’m no 22 year old

kid.

 

what gets me is that it

seemed to happen

overnight.

 

one night I was good.

the next night, it

seemed, I was

finished.

 

I come out of the bathroom

and my wife says,

“don’t worry, all you need

is a little

rest.”

 

“I been thinking about going

into coaching,” I tell

her.

 

“sure,” she says, “and after

that I’ll bet you’ll be a

good manager.”

 

“hell yes,” I say, “anything

on tv?”

 

dark taste in mouth, my neck is stiff, I am looking for

my sonic vibrator, the music on my radio is diseased,

the winds of death seep through my slippers, and a

terrible letter in the mail today from a pale non-soul

who requests that he may come by to see me

in repayment, he says, for a ride he gave me home

from a drunken Pasadena party

20 years ago.

also, one of the cats shit on the rug this

morning

and in the first race I bet this afternoon

the horse tossed the jock

coming out of the gate.

 

downstairs

I have a large photo of Hemingway

drunk before noon in Havana, he’s on the floor

mouth open, his big belly trying to flop

out of his shirt.

 

I feel like that photo and I’m not even drunk.

maybe

that’s the problem.

 

whatever the problem is, it’s there, and worse, it

shouldn’t be

for I have been a lucky man, I shouldn’t even

be here

after all I have done to myself

and after all they have done

to me

I ought to be kneeling to the gods and giving

thanks.

instead, I deride their kindness by being

impatient

with the world.

maybe a damned good night’s sleep will bring me back

to a gentle sanity.

but at the moment, I look about this room and, like

myself, it’s all in disarray: things fallen

out of place, cluttered, jumbled, lost, knocked

over, and I can’t put it straight, don’t

want to.

 

perhaps living through these petty days will get us ready

for the dangerous ones.

 

it’s no longer any good, sucker, they’ve

turned out the lights, they’ve

blocked the rear entrance

and

the front’s on fire;

nobody knows your name;

down at the opera they play

checkers;

the city fountains piss

blood;

the extremities are reamed

and

they’ve hung the best

barber;

the dim souls have ascended;

the cardboard souls smile;

the love of dung is unanimous;

it’s no longer any good, sucker, the

graves have emptied out onto the

living;

last is first,

lost is everything;

the giant dogs mourn through dandelion

dreams;

the panthers welcome cages;

the onion heart is frosted,

destiny is destitute,

the horns of reason are muted as

the laughter of fools blockades the air;

the champions are dead

and

the newly born are smitten;

the jetliners vomit the eyeless through

space;

it’s no longer any good, sucker, it’s been

getting to that

right along

and now

it’s here

and you can’t touch it smell it see it

because it’s nothing everywhere as

you look up or down or turn or sit or stand

or sleep or run,

it’s no longer any good, sucker.

it’s no longer any good

sucker sucker sucker

and

if you don’t already know

I’m not surprised

and

if you do, sucker, good

luck

in the dark

going nowhere.

 

not much chance in

Amsterdam;

cheese dislikes the

flea;

the center fielder

turns

runs back

in his stupid

uniform,

times it all

perfectly:

ball and man

arriving as

one

he

gloves it

precisely

in tune with the

universe;

not much chance in

east

Kansas City;

and

have you noticed

how

men stand

side by side

in urinals,

trained in the

act,

looking straight

ahead;

the center fielder

wings it

into the

cut-off

man

who eyes the

runners;

the sun plunges

down

as somewhere

an old

woman

opens a window

looks at a

geranium,

goes for a cup of

water;

not much chance in

New York City

 

or

in the look

of the eye

of

the man

who sits in a

chair

across from

you

 

he is

going

to ask you

certain

questions about

certain

things

 

especially

about

 

what to

do

 

without

much chance.