The Last Night of the Earth Poems (16 page)

 

I can’t have it

and you can’t have it

and we won’t

get it

 

so don’t bet on it

or even think about

it

 

just get out of bed

each morning

 

wash

shave

clothe

yourself

and go out into

it

 

because

outside of that

all that’s left is

suicide and

madness

 

so you just

can’t

expect too much

 

you can’t even

expect

 

so what you do

is

work from a modest

minimal

base

like when you

walk outside

be glad your car

might possibly

be there

 

and if it is—

that the tires

aren’t

flat

 

then you get

in

and if it

starts—you

start.

 

and

it’s the damndest

movie

you’ve ever

seen

because

you’re

in it—

 

low budget

and

4 billion

critics

 

and the longest

run

you ever hope

for

is

 

one

day.

 

I am spooked by the bluebells and the silent harp while

passing down Western Avenue and seeing the tombstones

placed flat instead of upright upon the cemetery lawn: our decent

modernity not wanting to upset us with Finalities while we

pay 22% interest on our credit cards.

 

I follow the street on down

feeling wonderful that I do not appear to be lost.

we need our landmarks (like cemeteries), we need our

liquor and our liabilities.

we need so many things we think we do not

need.

 

strangely then, as I drive south, I begin thinking about

THE WORLD IS SQUARE, INC., an institution which meets and

discusses the fact that: the world is square and the North Pole is at

the
CENTER
of the
SQUARE
and holds everything from sliding

over the edge and that the
EDGE
is really a
WALL OF

DARKNESS AND ICE
and that nothing or nobody can go
through

and that

when we
THINK
we are circling the globe we are only

CIRCLING
the
SQUARE
, finally arriving back

where we began.

 

I wait at a signal, the light turns green and I move on

thinking, well, maybe the planets we believe are round are

illusions, and the moon and the sun, they are really square

too.

 

well, you can’t rule anything out; I vote for round

but I still realize that it wasn’t too long ago when

EVERYBODY
thought the answer was
SQUARE
.

 

I stop at another signal, wait, while being held from falling

over the
EDGE OF DARKNESS AND ICE
by the North Pole standing in the

CENTER
of the
SQUARE
.

the light changes, I drive on, turn left, go a few blocks, turn

right, go a block or so, turn left, go a block, turn right, then

a left and I am at my driveway, turn in, drive slowly up to

the garage

past the tangerine tree and the tangerines are round but

the garage door is square and I am still spooked by the

bluebells and the silent harp

cut the engine

get out

stand up

still alive.

 

I move along the walk.

god, things are getting interesting again: they say there are

bottomless craters at the North Pole and deep in the earth live

Creatures from Outer Space

down there

in a marvelous, beautiful and peaceful Kingdom, I move toward the

door, make ready to open it, not at all sure of what will be

waiting on the other side—there is always this gnarling

apprehension

generally but not always warranted, and as the North Pole holds me

from falling off either the Curve or the

Edge

I push open the wooden wall and enter, ready and not ready

enough.

 

all right,

some day you’ll see me in a plastic

helmet, long stockings,

double-lens goggles;

I’ll be tooling along on my 10-speed

bike on the promenade,

my face will be as intense

as a canteloupe and

in my knapsack

there could be a

bible, along with the

liverwurst sandwich and

the red red

apple.

 

off to one side the

sea will break and

break

and I will

pump along—a

well-lived

man,

lived a little, perhaps,

beyond his

sensibilities: too

much hair in the

ears, and face

badly shaven;

there, my lips

never again to

kiss a

virgin; I gulp in

the salty air

while being

unsure of the

time

but almost sure

of the

place.

 

all right, gliding

along

girding up for the

casket,

the sun like a

yellow glove to

grab me

I pass a group of

young ones

sitting in their

convertible.

 

“Jesus Christ,” I hear

a voice, “do you

know who that

was?
”

 

was?

was?

 

why, you little

fart bells!

you bits of

bunny

droppings!

 

I kick it

into high, I

rise over a

hill

into a patch

of fog,

my legs

pump and

the

sea

breaks.

 

you take a stool, unfold the paper, the waitress brings the

java, you order bacon and

everybody in there is old and bent and poor, they are like

the oldest people in the universe

having breakfast

and it’s dark in there like the inside of a glove

and some of the patrons speak to each other,

only their voices are broken and scratched and they speak

of simple things,

so simple

you think that they are joking but

they hulk over their food, unsmiling…

“Casmir died, he wore his green shoes…”

“yeh.”

 

strange place there, no sadness, no rancor, an overhead

fan turns slowly, one of the blades bent a bit, it

clicks against the grate: “a-flick, a-flick, a-flick…”

nobody

notices.

 

my food arrives, it is hot and clean, but never coffee

like that (the worst), it is like drinking the water left in muddy

footprints.

 

the old waitress is a dear, dressed in faded pink, she can

hardly walk, she’s

sans everything
.

 

“do you really love me?” she asks the young Mexican fry

cook. “why?”

 

“because I can’t help it,” he says, running the spatula

under a mass of hash browns, turning

them.

I eat, peruse the newspaper, general idea I get is

that the world is not yet about to end but a

recession is to come creeping in wearing

faded tennis

shoes.

 

an old man looms in the doorway, he’s big in all the

wrong ways and shuts out what little light there

is.

 

“hey, anybody seen Vern?”

 

there is no answer, the old man

waits, he waits a good minute and a half, then he lets out a

little fart.

I can hear it, everybody can. uh

huh.

he reaches up, scratches behind his left ear, then backs out of

the doorway and is

gone.

 

“that ratfucker,” somebody says, “zinched little Laura out of

her dowry.”

 

the last bit of toast sogs down my throat, I wipe my mouth, leave

the tip, rise to pay the

bill.

 

the cash register is the old fashioned kind where the

drawer jumps out when you hit the

keys.

 

I was the last person to sit down to eat, I am the first to

leave, the others still sit

fiddling with their food, fighting the coffee

down

 

as I get to my car I start the engine, think,

nice place, rather like an accidental

love, maybe I’ll go back there

once or

twice.

 

then I back out, swing around and enter the

real world

again.

 

leaving for the track in the morning

my wife asks me,

“did you wring out your washrag

properly?”

 

“yes,” I say.

 

“you never do,” she says,

“it’s important that you wring out

your washrag

properly.”

 

I get into my car,

start it,

back out the drive.

 

of course, she’s right, it is

important.

on the other hand

I don’t want to get into an

argument over

washrags.

 

she waves goodbye,

I wave back,

then I turn left,

go down the hill.

 

it is a fine sunny

day

and great matters loom

across the horizon

of

history.

Carthage in my rearview

mirror,

I blend into

Time.