The Last Night of the Earth Poems (5 page)

 

it was one of those hot and tiring days at Hollywood

Park

with a huge crowd, a

tiring, rude, dumb

crowd.

 

I won the last race and stayed to collect and when I

got to my car

there was a massive jam of traffic attempting to

work its way out of there.

 

so I took my shoes off, sat and waited, turned on the

radio, lucked onto some classical music, found

a pint of Scotch in the glove compartment, uncapped

it, had a

hit.

 

I’m going to let them all get out of here, I

thought, then I’ll

go.

 

I found ¾’s of a cigar, lit it, had another hit

of Scotch.

 

I listened to the music, smoked, drank the

Scotch and watched the losers

leave.

 

there was even a little crap game going

about 100 yards to the

east

 

then that

broke up.

 

I decided to finish the

pint.

I did, then stretched out on the

seat.

 

I don’t know how long I

slept

but when I awakened it was dark and

the parking lot was

empty.

 

I decided not to put on my shoes, started the car

and drove out of

there….

 

when I got back to my place I could hear the phone

ringing.

 

as I put the key in the door and opened it,

the phone kept

ringing.

 

I walked over, picked up the

phone.

 

“hello?”

 

“you son of a bitch, where have you

been?”

 

“the racetrack.”

 

“the racetrack? it’s 12:30 a.m.! I’ve been

phoning since

7 p.m.!”

 

“I just got in from the

racetrack.”

“you got some woman

there?”

 

“no.”

 

“I don’t believe you!”

she hung up.

 

I walked to the refrigerator, got a beer, went to

the bathroom, let the water run in the

tub.

I finished the beer, got another, opened it and

climbed into the

tub.

 

the phone rang

again.

 

I got out of the tub with my beer and

dripping away

I walked to the phone, picked it

up.

 

“hello?”

 

“you son of a bitch, I still don’t

believe you!”

 

she hung up.

 

I walked back to the tub with my beer,

leaving another trail of

water.

 

as I got back into the tub

the phone rang

again.

 

I let it ring, counting the

rings: 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,

10,11,12,13,14,15,

16…

 

she hung up.

 

then, perhaps, 3 or 4 minutes

passed.

 

the phone rang

again.

 

I counted the rings:

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,

9…

 

then it was

quiet.

 

about then I remembered I had

left my shoes in the

car.

no matter, except I only had

one pair.

 

chances were, though, that nobody

would ever want to steal that

car.

 

I got out of the tub for another

beer,

leaving another trail

behind me.

 

it was the end of a

long

long

day.

 

of course, I may die in the next ten minutes

and I’m ready for that

but what I’m really worried about is

that my editor-publisher might retire

even though he is ten years younger than

I.

it was just 25 years ago (I was at that
ripe

old age of 45)

when we began our unholy alliance to

test the literary waters,

neither of us being much

known.

 

I think we had some luck and still have some

of same

yet

the odds are pretty fair

that he will opt for warm and pleasant

afternoons

in the garden

long before I.

 

writing is its own intoxication

while publishing and editing,

attempting to collect bills

carries its own

attrition

which also includes dealing with the

petty bitchings and demands

of many

so-called genius darlings who are

not.

 

I won’t blame him for getting

out

and hope he sends me photos of his

Rose Lane, his

Gardenia Avenue.

will I have to seek other

promulgators?

that fellow in the Russian

fur hat?

or that beast in the East

with all that hair

in his ears, with those wet and

greasy lips?

 

or will my editor-publisher

upon exiting for that world of Trollius and

trellis

hand over the

machinery

of his former trade to a

cousin, a

daughter or

some Poundian from Big

Sur?

 

or will he just pass the legacy on

to the

Shipping Clerk

who will rise like

Lazarus,

fingering new-found

importance?

 

one can imagine terrible

things:

“Mr. Chinaski, all your work

must now be submitted in

Rondo form

and

typed

triple-spaced on rice

paper.”

 

power corrupts,

life aborts

and all you

have left

is a

bunch of

warts.

 

“no, no, Mr. Chinaski:

Rondo
form!”

 

“hey, man,” I’ll ask,

“haven’t you heard of

the thirties?”

 

“the thirties? what’s

that?”

 

my present editor-publisher

and I

at times

did discuss the thirties,

the Depression

and

some of the little tricks it

taught us—

like how to endure on almost

nothing

and move forward

anyhow.

 

well, John, if it happens enjoy your

divertissement to

plant husbandry,

cultivate and aerate

between

bushes, water only in the

early morning, spread

shredding to discourage

weed growth

and

as I do in my writing:

use plenty of

manure.

 

and thank you

for locating me there at

5124 DeLongpre Avenue

somewhere between

alcoholism and

madness.

 

together we

laid down the gauntlet

and there are takers

even at this late date

still to be

found

as the fire sings

through the

trees.

 

“—you know, I’ve either had a family, a job, something

has always been in the

way

but now

I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this

place, a large studio, you should see the
space
and

the
light
.

for the first time in my life I’m going to have a place and the time to

create.
”

 

no baby, if you’re going to create

you’re going to create whether you work

16 hours a day in a coal mine

or

you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children

while you’re on

welfare,

you’re going to create with part of your mind and your

body blown

away,

you’re going to create blind

crippled

demented,

you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your

back while

the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,

flood and fire.

 

baby, air and light and time and space

have nothing to do with it

and don’t create anything

except maybe a longer life to find

new excuses

for.

 

what will they be writing about 2,000 years from

now

if they are

here?

 

now

I drink cabernet sauvignon while

listening to

Bach: it’s

most curious: this

continuing death

this

continuing life

 

as

I look at this hand

holding a cigarette

I feel as if

I have been here

forever.

 

now

troops with bayonets

sack

the town below.

my dog, Tony, smiles at

me.

 

it is well

to feel good

for no reason;

or

with a limited

choice to

choose

anyhow;

or with a little love,

not to buckle to

hatred.

faith, brother, not in the

gods

but in

yourself:

don’t ask,

tell.

 

I tell you

such fine

music

waits

in the

shadows

of

hell.