The Last Night of the Earth Poems (7 page)

 

were always all right with me

because when I tried to sell something in the street

there were no takers.

 

of course, the shops offered far less than real value;

they had to profit on the

resale,

but at least, they were

there.

 

my favorite shop was a place in Los Angeles—

this fellow would lead me to a booth where

he would gather a black curtain all around

us,

it slid on little rings

and then

we would be enclosed.

 

and it always went like

this:

 

“show me,” he would

say.

 

I would place the item on the table under

the very strong

light.

 

he would examine the item, then look at me

for some time.

 

“I can’t give you very much for

this.”

 

another pause, then he would name his

price.

the offer was always more than I

expected.

 

“I’ll take $10,” I would name a

higher price.

 

“no,” he would answer, “in fact…”

and then he would mention a lower price

than his original

offer.

 

at times I would attempt to joke with

him:

 

“if I stay here long enough, I’ll be

paying
you
…”

 

he wouldn’t smile.

 

“we don’t have to do business at

all.”

 

“listen, I’ll accept your
first
offer…”

 

“very well,” he would say,

“but I will
lose
on

this…”

 

then he would write out the

pawn ticket and give me the

money.

 

“please be sure to read your ticket,

there are

stipulations.”

 

then he would turn off the light

and pull the black curtain

away…

sometimes I was able to retrieve one

of the items

but eventually they all returned

forever.

 

also, I found out that the one thing

you
could
sell in the bars and on the

street were

hock shop tickets.

 

the hock shops helped me through some terrible

times and I was glad they were

there when nothing else

was, and that booth with the black

curtain: what a marvelous sanctuary,

a place to give up something for

something else that you needed

much more.

 

how many typewriters, suits, gloves and

watches I left in the hock shops

I have no

idea,

but those places were always

all right

with me.

 

even when starving

the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:

I only believed that the editors were

truly stupid

and I just went on and wrote more and

more.

I even considered rejects as

action
; the worst was the empty

mailbox.

 

if I had a weakness or a dream

it was

that I only wanted to
see
one of these

editors

who rejected me,

to
see
his or her face, the way they

dressed, the way they walked across a

room, the sound of their voice, the look

in their eye…

just
one
look at
one
of

them—

 

you see, when all you look at is

a piece of printed paper

telling you that you

aren’t very good,

then there is a tendency

to think that the editors

are more god-like than

they are.

 

hell is a closed door

when you’re starving for your goddamned art

but sometimes you feel at least like having a

peek through the

keyhole.

young or old, good or bad,

I don’t think anything dies as slow and

as hard as a

writer.

 

what I like about you

she told me

is that you’re crude—

look at you sitting there

a beercan in your hand

and a cigar in your mouth

and look at

your dirty hairy belly

sticking out from

under your shirt.

you’ve got your shoes off

and you’ve got a hole

in your right stocking

with the big toe

sticking out.

you haven’t shaved in

4 or 5 days.

your teeth are yellow

and your eyebrows

hang down

all twisted

and you’ve got enough

scars

to scare the shit

out of anybody.

there’s always

a ring

in your bathtub

your telephone

is covered with

grease

and

half the crap in

your refrigerator is

rotten.

you never

wash your car.

you’ve got newspapers

a week old

on the floor.

you read dirty

magazines

and you don’t have

a tv

but you order

deliveries from the

liquor store

and you tip

good.

and best of all

you don’t push

a woman to

go to bed

with you.

you seem hardly

interested

and when I talk to you

you don’t

say anything

you just

look around

the room or

scratch your

neck

like you don’t

hear me.

you’ve got an old

wet towel in

the sink

and a photo of

Mussolini

on the wall

and you never

complain

about anything

and you never

ask questions

and I’ve

known you for

6 months

but I have

no idea

who you are.

you’re like

some

pulled down shade

but that’s what

I like about

you:

your crudeness:

a woman can

drop

out of your

life and

forget you

real fast.

a woman

can’t go anywhere

but UP

after

leaving you,

honey.

you’ve got to

be

the best thing

that ever

happened

to

a girl

who’s between

one guy

and the next

and has nothing

to do

at the moment.

this fucking

Scotch is

great.

let’s play

Scrabble.

 

I’m glad I got to them

all, I’m glad I got so many of them

in.

 

I flipped them

poked them

gored them.

 

so many high-heeled shoes

under my bed

it looked like a January

Clearance Sale.

 

the cheap hotel rooms,

the drunken fights,

the phones ringing,

the walls banging

 

I was

wild

red-eyed

big-balled

unshaven

poor

foul-mouthed

I laughed

plenty

 

and I picked them off

the barstools

like

ripe plums.

 

dirty sheets

bad whiskey

bad breath

cheap cigars

and to hell with the next

morning.

 

I always slept with my

wallet under my

pillow

bedded down with the

depressed and the

crazies.

 

I was barred from half the

hotels in

Los Angeles.

 

I’m glad I got to them all,

I plugged and banged and

sang and

some of them

sang with me

on those glorious

3 a.m. mornings.

when the cops

arrived, that was

grand,

we barricaded the doors

and taunted

them

and they never waited around

until noon

(checking-out time) to

arrest us,

we weren’t that

important

 

but

I thought we were

walking toward the bar,

and what a place the bar was

around noon, so quiet and

empty,

a place to begin

again,

to buck up with a quiet

beer,

looking out across at the

park

with the ducks over there

and the tall trees

over there.

 

so,

always broke but always

money from somewhere,

I waited

getting ready to

plug and bang and poke

and sing again

in those good old times

in those very very very

good old times

before Aids.

 

Nina was the hardest of them

all,

the worst woman I had known

up to that moment

and I was sitting in front of

my secondhand black and white

tv

watching the news

when I heard a suspicious

sound in the kitchen

and I ran out there

and saw her with

a full bottle of whiskey—

a 5th—

and she had it and

was headed for the back porch

door

but I caught her and

grabbed at the bottle.

“give me that bottle, you

fucking whore!”

and we wrestled for the

bottle

and let me tell you

she gave me a good fight

for it

but

I got it away from her

and I told her to

get her ass out of

there.

she lived in the same place

in the back

upstairs.

 

I locked the door

took the bottle and a

glass

went out to the couch

sat down and

opened the bottle and

poured myself a good

one.

 

I shut off the tv and

sat there

thinking about what a

hard number

Nina was.

I came up with

at least

a dozen lousy things

she had done

to me.

 

what a whore.

what a hunk of rock.

 

I sat there drinking

the whiskey

and wondering

what I was doing

with Nina.

 

then there was a

knock on the

door.

it was Nina’s friend,

Helga.

 

“where’s Nina?”

she asked.

 

“she tried to steal

my whiskey, I

ran her ass

out of here.”

“she said to meet

her here.”

 

“what for?”

 

“she said me and her

were going to do it

in front of you

for $50.”

 

“$25.”

 

“she said $50.”

 

“well, she’s not

here…want a

drink?”

 

“sure…”

 

I got Helga a glass

poured her a

whiskey.

she took a

hit.

 

“maybe,” she said,

“I ought to go get

Nina.”

 

“I don’t want to see

her.”

 

“why not?”

 

“she’s a whore.”

 

Helga finished her

drink and I poured

her another.

she took a

hit.

 

“Benny calls me a

whore, I’m no

whore.”

 

Benny was the guy

she was shacked

with.

 

“I know you’re no

whore, Helga.”

 

“thanks. Ain’t ya got no

music?”

 

“just the radio…”

 

she saw it

got up

turned it

on.

some music came

blaring out.

 

Helga began to

dance

holding her whiskey

glass in one

hand.

she wasn’t a good

dancer

she looked

ridiculous.

 

she stopped

drained her drink

rolled her glass along the

rug

then ran toward

me

dropped to her knees

unzipped me

and then

she was down

there

doing tricks.

 

I drained my

drink

poured another.

 

she was

good.

she had a college

degree

some place back

East.

 

“get it, Helga, get

it!”

 

there was a loud

knock

on the front

door.

 

“
HANK, IS HELGA

THERE
?”

 

“
WHO
?”

 

“
HELGA
!”

 

“
JUST A MINUTE
!”

 

“
THIS IS NINA, I WAS

SUPPOSED TO MEET

HELGA HERE, WE HAVE A

LITTLE SURPRISE FOR

YOU
!”

 

“
YOU TRIED TO STEAL

MY WHISKEY, YOU

WHORE
!”

 

“
HANK, LET ME

IN
!”

 

“get it, Helga, get

it!”

 

“
HANK
!”

 

“Helga, you fucking whore…

Helga! Helga! Helga!!”

 

I pulled away and

got up.

 

“let her in.”

 

I went to the

bathroom.

 

when I came out they

were both sitting there

drinking and smoking

laughing about

something.

then they

saw me.

 

“50 bucks,” said Nina.

 

“25 bucks,” I said.

“we won’t do it

then.”

 

“don’t then.”

 

Nina inhaled

exhaled.

“all right, you

cheap bastard, 25

bucks!”

 

Nina stood up and

began taking her

clothes off.

 

she was the hardest

of them

all.

 

Helga stood up and

began taking her

clothes off.

 

I poured a

drink.

“sometimes I wonder

what the hell is

going on

around here,” I

said.

 

“don’t worry about

it, Daddy, just

get with it!”

 

“just what am I

supposed to

do?”

“just do

whatever the fuck

you feel

like doing,”

said Nina

her big ass

blazing

in the

lamplight.