The Last Night of the Earth Poems (24 page)

 

It’s never quite right, he said, the way the people look,

the way the music sounds, the way the words are

written.

it’s never quite right, he said, all the things we are

taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we

die, all the lives we live,

they are never quite right,

they are hardly close to right,

these lives we live

one after the other,

piled there as history,

the waste of the species,

the crushing of the light and the way,

it’s not quite right,

it’s hardly right at all

he said.

 

don’t I know it? I

answered.

 

I walked away from the mirror.

it was morning, it was afternoon, it was

night

 

nothing changed

it was locked in place.

something flashed, something broke, something

remained.

 

I walked down the stairway and

into it.

 

some jobs you like,

there is a clean gentle

feel to some of them,

like the one I had

unloading boxcars

of frozen

fish.

 

the fish came packed

in coffin-sized boxes,

beautifully

heavy and

almost

unyielding.

you had thick gloves

and a hook

and you gaffed the

damned thing

and pulled it along

the floor and slid it

outside and onto the

waiting

truck.

 

and strangely there

was no foreman,

they just turned us

loose in there

knowing we’d get

it done.

 

we were always

sending out one of

the fellows for another

bottle of

wine.

it was slippery and

cold in those

boxcars

 

we yanked out those

iced fish,

drank the wine

and the bullshit

flew.

there was a

fight or two

but nothing really

violent.

I was the peacemaker.

 

“come on, fuck

that stuff!

let’s get these

fish out of

here!

 

yeah!”

then we’d be

laughing and

bullshitting

again.

 

toward evening

we all got quiet.

the fish seemed to

get heavier and

heavier.

shins got cracked,

knees

bruised

and the wine

settled heavily

into our

guts.

by the time you

got to your last box

you bullied it

out of there

strictly on nerve

alone.

 

when you punched

out

even the timecard

seemed

heavy.

 

and then you were

in your old car

moving toward

your place,

your shackjob,

wondering

whether good times

or hell

awaited

you.

 

but the frozen fish

you had

worked,

that thought was

pleasant and

soothing,

and you’d be back

for more,

hooking the wood

and dragging.

 

the night came

on and you flicked

the headlights

on

and the world was

good enough,

right

then.

 

I was always studying the wood of the

bar, the grains, the scratches, the

cigarette burns.

there was something there but I

couldn’t quite figure what it

was

and that kept me going.

 

another one was to look at my

hand around the

glass.

there is something about

one’s hand about a

glass that is gently

fascinating.

 

and, of course, there is this one:

all drunks do it:

taking your thumbnail and slowly

ripping off the label

on a bottle of beer that has been

soaking in the icewater.

 

smoking cigarettes is a good show

too, especially in the early morning

hours with the Venetian blinds at

your back,

the smoke curls up and forms its

divergent patterns.

this gives one the feeling of

peace

and really so, more so,

if there is one of your favorite

old songs

emanating from the

juke.

and if the bartender was old

and a little tired and a little bit

wise

it was good to see where he

was or what he was doing—

washing glasses or leaning

against the counter or

sneaking a quick

shot

or whatever he was doing

it was always nice to just

see a bit of him,

to take note of the white

shirt.

the white shirt was an

important backdrop to

drink to and

with.

 

also you listened to the

traffic going by,

car by car.

it was not a deliberate

listening—more an offhand

one.

and it was best when

it had rained

and you could hear the

tires on the

wet street.

 

the bar was the best

place to hide in.

time came under your

control, time to wade

in, time to do nothing

in.

no guru was needed,

no god.

 

nothing expected but

yourself

and nothing lost

to the

unexpected.

 

my uncle Jack

is a mouse

is a house on fire

is a war about to begin

is a man running down the street with a knife in his back.

 

my uncle Jack

is the Santa Monica pier

is a dusty blue pillow

is a scratching black-and-white dog

is a man with one arm lighting a cigarette with one hand.

 

my uncle Jack

is a slice of burnt toast

is the place you forgot to look for the key

is the pleasure of finding 3 rolls of toilet paper in the closet

is the worst dream you’ve ever had that you can’t remember.

 

my uncle Jack

is the firecracker that went off in your hand

is your run-over cat dead outside your driveway at 10:30 a.m.

is the crap game you won in the Santa Anita parking lot

is the man your woman left you for that night in the cheap hotel room.

 

my uncle Jack

is your uncle Jack

is death coming like a freight train

is a clown with weeping eyes

is your car jack and your fingernails and the scream of the biggest mountain now.

 

you have to have it or the walls will close

in.

you have to give everything up, throw it

away, everything away.

you have to look at what you look at

or think what you think

or do what you do

or

don’t do

without considering personal

advantage

without accepting guidance.

 

people are worn away with

striving,

they hide in common

habits.

their concerns are herd

concerns.

 

few have the ability to stare

at an old shoe for

ten minutes

or to think of odd things

like who invented the

doorknob?

 

they become unalive

because they are unable to

pause

undo themselves

unkink

unsee

unlearn

roll clear.

listen to their untrue

laughter, then

walk

away.

 

have I gone the way of the deathly death?

will this machine finish me

where booze and women and poverty

have not?

 

is Whitman laughing at me from his grave?

does Creeley care?

 

is this properly spaced?

am I?

 

will Ginsberg howl?

 

soothe me!

 

get me lucky!

 

get me good!

 

get me going!

 

I am a virgin again.

 

a 70 year old virgin.

 

don’t fuck me, machine

 

do.

who cares?

 

talk to me, machine!

 

we can drink together.

we can have fun.

 

think of all the people who will hate me at this

computer.

we’ll add them to the others

and continue right

on.

 

so this is the beginning

not the

end.

 

are who I will hear tonight

after reading about the death of Red Grange.

my wife and I ate at a Japanese restaurant tonight

and I told her that Red Grange had died.

I had red bean ice cream for dessert.

my wife declined.

the war was still on in the Gulf.

we got into the car and I drove us back here.

now I am listening to Rossini

who died before Red Grange.

now the audience is applauding.

now the players are readying for Mozart.

Red Grange got a hell of a write-up in the papers.

now Mozart is beginning.

I am smoking a small cigarette imported from India.

4 of my 6 cats are asleep in the next room.

my wife is downstairs.

outside it is a cold, still winter night.

I blow smoke into the desk lamp and watch it curl.

Mozart is doing very well.

Shostakovich is getting ready.

it is a late Tuesday evening.

and Red Grange is dead.