The Last Night of the Earth Poems (19 page)

 

the poor

in the grandstand section

playing the

daily doubles

the exactas

the pick-6’s

the pick-9’s

 

they have horrible

jobs

or

no jobs

 

they come in

beaten

to take another

beating.

 

scuffed shoes

shirts with buttons

missing,

faded and wrinkled

clothing—

muted eyes,

they are the

unwashed

the

unwanted

 

the beggars of the

grandstand

 

and as race after race

unfolds

they are routinely

sucked of

money and

hope

then

the last race is

over

 

and for a few

there’s the

liquor

store

 

a bit to drink

and a

lottery

ticket.

 

for the

others:

nothing.

 

beggars of the

grandstand.

 

the State is going

to

make it.

 

the track is going

to

make

it

 

thanks to the

Days of the Living

Dead.

 

well,

the horses are

beautiful

anyhow.

 

he wears the same pants

the same coat

the same shoes

day after day.

 

his shirttail hangs out.

his shoes are unlaced.

his hair is white and

uncombed.

he is balding.

 

he walks slowly to make his

bets, then

walks slowly back to his

seat.

 

he watches each race

without emotion.

 

he is hooked on nothing but

an impossibility.

 

he is so tired.

 

the old horseplayer.

 

the skies, the mountains,

music, nothing matters to

him.

 

he’s hooked on an

impossibility.

 

some of the old rich still make it to

Santa Anita Turf Club parking.

and the old rich still buy Cadillacs—

and he can barely drive the Caddy—

and the valet helps them both

out.

he’s fat and squat, very white, with

merry blue eyes and she’s taller,

dignified but dumb, and her back is

bent.

expensively clothed

they both move toward the Turf Club

entrance

where they are swallowed forever

as the horn sounds to post

and the number one horse steps out

on the track

more beautiful than all the people

more beautiful than all the world

and it

begins.

 

at times I still consider coughing it up: gas pipe, 19th floor

window, 3 fifths of whiskey in 4 hours or

slamming at 85 mph into a slab of

concrete.

 

my first thought of suicide came at age 13 and it has

been with me ever since

through all the botched failures:

sometimes just rather playing at it, little minor

rehearsals;

other times

really trying like hell to

kill myself.

 

yet, now it’s never totally intense, it’s more like

considering whether to go to a movie or

not or whether to buy a new pair of

shoes.

actually, years go by and the suicidal thoughts

almost completely

abate.

then

suddenly

they return, like:

look here, baby, let’s give it another

shot.

 

and when it returns it’s fairly

compelling

but not so much in the mind (as in the old

days) but strangely, suicide waits in old little places,

on the back of your neck or

at a spot just under the chin

or along the arms like the sleeves of a

sweater…

it used to hit the gut, now it’s almost like

catching a

rash.

 

I will be driving along in my car with the radio

on and it will leap at me and I will smile at

it

remembering the old days

when those I knew thought that

my daring crazy acts stemmed from

bravery…

 

I will drive for several hours

up and down strange streets in

strange neighborhoods

at times

slowing down carefully

where children are playing in the

road.

 

I will park

go into cafes

drink coffee

read newspapers.

I will hear voices speaking of

ridiculous and dull

things.

 

I will be back in the car

driving along

and at once

everything will lift:

we all live in the same world:

I will have to pay my gas bill, get a

set of new reading glasses, I will need a

new tire

left rear

and I think I’ve been using my neighbor’s

garbage can.

it is fine to be normal again and

as I pull into the driveway

a large white moon smiles at me

through the windshield of

evening.

 

I brake, get out, close the car

door, centuries of sadness, gladness and

equilibrium will walk with me up to the door

as I put in the key

unlock it

walk into the place

once again having escaped the

inescapable, I will move toward the

kitchen cabinet for the

bottle

to

celebrate

that

or

whatever there is,

isn’t,

will be,

won’t

be—

like right

now.

 

today they shot a guy who was

selling balloons at the

intersection.

 

they parked their cars at the

curbing

and called him

over.

 

he came

over.

 

they argued with him about

the price of a

balloon, they wanted him

to come down in

price.

 

he said he couldn’t.

 

one of them started calling

him names.

 

the other took out a gun

and shot him in the

head.

twice.

 

he fell

right there

in the street.

 

they took his balloons,

said, “now we can

party,” and then they

drove off

there are also other guys

at that intersection, they

sell oranges

mostly.

 

they left then

and they weren’t at the

intersection the next day

or the next or

the next.

 

nobody was.

 

I was at the airport

standing at the arrival section

with my wife

waiting for her sister’s

flight in

when a young man walked up:

“aren’t you Henry Chinaski?”

“well, yes…”

“oh, I thought so!”

there was a pause.

then

he continued: “you don’t

know what this

means to me!

I can’t believe it!

I’ve read all your books!”

“thank you,” I said, “I have to be

thankful for my

readers.”

he gave me his name and we

shook hands.

“this is my wife,” I started…

“
Sarah!
” he said,

“I
know
her

from your books!”

another pause.

then:

“I get all your books from Red

down at Baroque…

I still can’t believe it’s

you!”

“it is,” laughed my wife,

“it’s him!”

“well,” he said, “I’ll leave you

alone now!”

“tell Red I said ‘hello.’”

then the young man

moved off.

“he was all right,” I said,

“I usually can’t stand

them.”

 

“like you say, you have to

be thankful for your

readers.”

 

“damned right…”

 

then her sister’s plane tooled

up and we moved with the others

to greet those we knew and those

who knew

us.

 

they were all out on the front porch

talking:

Hemingway, Faulkner, T. S. Eliot,

Ezra Pound, Hamsun, Wally Stevens,

e. e. cummings and a few others.

 

“listen,” said my mother, “can’t you

ask them to stop talking?”

 

“no,” I said.

 

“they are talking garbage,” said my

father, “they ought to get

jobs.”

 

“they have jobs,” I

said.

 

“like hell,” said my

father.

 

“exactly,” I

said.

 

just then Faulkner came

staggering in.

he found the whiskey in the

cupboard and went outside with

it.

 

“a terrible person,”

said my mother.

 

then she got up and peeked out

on the porch.

“they’ve got a woman with them,”

she said, “only she looks like a

man.”

 

“that’s Gertrude,” I

said.

 

“there’s another guy flexing his

muscles,” she said, “he claims he

can whip any three of

them.”

 

“that’s Ernie,” I said.

 

“and
he
,” my father pointed to me,

“wants to be like
them!
”

 

“is that true?” my mother asked.

 

“not like them,” I said, “but of

them.”

 

“you get a god-damned job,”

said my father.

 

“shut up,” I said.

 

“what?”

 

“I said, ‘shut up,’ I am listening to

these men.”

 

my father looked at his wife:

“this is no son of

mine!”

 

“I hope not,” I said.

 

Faulkner came staggering into the room

again.

“where’s the telephone?” he

asked.

 

“what the hell for?” my father

asked.

 

“Ernie’s just blown his brains

out,” he said.

 

“you see what happens to men like

that?” screamed my father.

 

I got up

slowly

and helped Bill find

the

telephone.