The Last Night of the Earth Poems (17 page)

 

another still, hot summer night,

the small insects circle my wineglass, my

winebottle.

 

I once again consider my death

as a Brahms symphony ends upon the

radio.

 

the horses didn’t run today (not

here) but there was gunfire, murder,

bombings in many parts of the

earth.

there is always a contest

of sorts

at hand.

 

and the years move slow and the years

move fast and the years move

past.

 

it seems not so long ago that

old Henry Miller was still

alive,

always finding new young girls to dust

his lampshades, pose for him, and make him

nice little meals.

what a ladies’ man, he could never get

enough of them.

 

anyhow, my 5 cats dislike the heat, they

sit outside under the cool juniper bushes

listening to me

type.

sometimes they bring me presents:

birds or mice.

then we have a little misunderstanding.

and they back off

looking at me

and their eyes say: this guy’s nuts,

he doesn’t know that this is the way

it works.

 

another hot summer night as I sit here

and play at being a writer

again.

and the worst thing

of course

is that the words will never

truly break through for any of

us.

 

some nights I have taken the sheet

out of the typer and

held it over the cigarette

lighter, flicked

it and waited for the

result.

 

“Hank, are you burning things again?”

my wife will ask.

 

anyhow, there’s another composer on the

radio now

and there is only so much he can do

with his notes.

I am proud for him and yet

sad for him too.

 

the radio is old and dusty

and through

the speaker

he talks to me.

 

it’s as if he were hiding in there

and I want to console him, say:

“I am sorry, poor fellow, but

creation has its

limits.”

 

another hot summer night

another sheet of paper in this machine,

more insects, more cigarettes in

this place, this time, hurrah hurrah, lost

in the grisly multitude of days

the speaker in the radio vibrates, trembles

as the composer swells out at me, the

son of a bitch is good

so brave despite his limitations

as the cats wait under the juniper

bushes and I pour more wine, more wine,

more wine.

 

I must wash this buddha that sits on my desk—

dust and grime all over him

mostly on his chest and belly; ah,

we have endured many long nights together; we have

endured trivia and horror; at unseemly times we

have laughed

cleanly—now

the least he deserves is a good

going over

with a wet rag;

truly terrible have been

some long nights but

the buddha has been good, quiet

company; he never quite looks at me but

he seems to be forever laughing—he’s

laughing at this muck of

existence: there’s nothing to be done.

 

“why clean me?” he now asks, “I will only dirty

again.”

“I am only pretending at some dumb sanity,” I

answer.

“drink your wine,” he responds, “that’s what

you’re good at.”

“and,” I ask, “what are you good

at?”

he returns: “I am good at almost watching

you.”

 

then he becomes silent.

he holds a circle of beads with a

tassel.

 

how did he get in

here?

 

the interviewers come around

and there is nothing that you can

really

tell them.

 

it’s

embarrassing

and the easiest way out

is to get yourself

and them

drunk.

 

sometimes there is also a

camera man and a sound

man

and so it becomes a

party with

many bottles

needed.

 

I don’t think they want to

hear the literary crap

either.

 

it seems to work out all

right:

I get letters

later:

 

“I really had a good

time…”

 

or: “it was the best time

I
ever
had.”

 

how strange, when all I

remember

of any particular night is

saying goodbye at the

door

with: “don’t leave

anything behind so you

have to

come back.”

 

the lady down at the end of the bar keeps looking at

me, I put my head down, I look away, I light

a cigarette, glance again: she’s still staring at me, she’s

charmingly dressed and she, herself, well, you might

say she’s beautiful.

her eyes meld with mine; I am

elated and nervous, then

she gets up, goes to the ladies’ room:

such a behind!

such grace!

what a gazelle!

 

I glance at my face in the bar mirror, look

away.

 

she’s back; then the barkeep comes down: “a drink

from the lady at the end of the bar.”

 

I nod thanks to her, lift my drink, smile, have a

hit.

 

she is looking again, what a strange and pleasurable

experience.

 

I look forward, examine the backs of my hands—not

bad hands as far as hands go.

 

then, at once, it occurs to me:

she has mistaken me for somebody

else.

 

I leave my stool and slowly walk to the exit,

and out into the night; I walk half a block down the

boulevard, feel the need for a smoke, slip the

pack of cigarettes out of my coat pocket, look

curiously at the brand name (I did
not
purchase

these): DEATH, it

says.

 

I curse, hurl the pack into the street, move toward

the next bar: knew it all along: she was a

whore.

 

you may not believe it

but there are people

who go through life with

very little

friction or

distress.

they dress well, eat

well, sleep well.

they are contented with

their family

life.

they have moments of

grief

but all in all

they are undisturbed

and often feel

very good.

and when they die

it is an easy

death, usually in their

sleep.

 

you may not believe

it

but such people do

exist.

 

but I am not one of

them.

oh no, I am not one

of them,

I am not even near

to being

one of

them

but they are

there

 

and I am

here.

 

the fight I saw,

after the tv cameras were

shut off,

a fighter in green

trunks and

a fighter in blue,

only 50 to 75

absolutely silent

people

remaining,

you heard each

blow

land

crushingly

amid

sweat, saliva

blood,

gasps of

agony,

drinks no longer

served,

all the lights

on,

thousands of

empty

seats,

the bell rang

to end the

round,

it clanged

right through

you

as the boxers

went back

sat on their

stools

and were

swabbed by

listless

cornermen.

we were all

in hell

all of us

and I

got up

and left

that time.

 

I know that I’m not supposed to bother

you, he said.

 

you’ve got that right, I

answered.

 

but, he went on, I want to tell you

that I was up all night

reading your

latest book.

I’ve read all your

books.

I work in the

post office.

 

oh, I said.

 

and I want to interview you for

our newspaper.

 

no, I said, no

interview.

 

why? he asked.

 

I’m tired of interviews, they have

nothing to do with

anything.

 

listen, he went on, I’ll make it

easy for you, I’ll come to your

house or I’ll buy you dinner at

Musso’s.

 

no, thank you, I said.

look, the interview isn’t really for

our paper, it’s for

me, I’m a writer and I want to get

out of the post

office.

 

listen, I said, just pull up a chair

and sit down at your

typewriter.

 

no interview? he asked.

 

no, I answered.

 

he walked

off.

 

they were coming out on the track

for the next race.

 

talking to the young man had

made me feel

bad.

 

they thought that writing had

something to do with

the politics of the

thing.

 

they were simply not

crazy enough

in the head

to sit down to a

typer

and let the words bang

out.

 

they didn’t want to

write

they wanted to

succeed at

writing.

 

I got up to make

my bet.

 

no use letting a little

conversation

ruin your

day.