The Last Night of the Earth Poems (8 page)

 

it

takes

a lot of

 

desperation

 

dissatisfaction

 

and

disillusion

 

to

write

 

a

few

good

poems.

 

it’s not

for

everybody

 

either to

 

write

it

 

or even to

 

read

it.

 

when my father ate

his lips became

greasy

with food.

 

and when he ate

he talked about how

good

the food was

and that

most other people

didn’t eat

as good

as we

did.

 

he liked to

sop up

what was left

on his plate

with a piece of

bread,

meanwhile making

appreciative sounds

rather like

half-grunts.

 

he
slurped
his

coffee

making loud

bubbling

sounds.

then he’d put

the cup

down:

“dessert? is it

jello?”

 

my mother would

bring it

in a large bowl

and my father would

spoon it

out.

 

as it plopped

in the dish

the jello made

strange sounds,

almost fart-like

sounds.

 

then came the

whipped cream,

mounds of it

on the

jello.

 

“ah! jello and

whipped cream!”

 

my father sucked the

jello and whipped

cream

off his spoon—

it sounded as if it

was entering a

wind

tunnel.

 

finished with

that

he would wipe his

mouth

with a huge white

napkin,

rubbing hard

in circular

motions,

the napkin almost

hiding his

entire

face.

 

after that

out came the

Camel

cigarettes.

he’d light one

with a wooden

kitchen match,

then place the

match,

still burning,

onto an

ashtray.

 

then a slurp of

coffee, the cup

back down, and a good

drag on the

Camel.

 

“ah that was a

good

meal!”

 

moments later

in my bedroom

on my bed

in the dark

the food that I

had eaten

and what I had

seen

was already

making me

ill.

 

the only good

thing

was

listening to

the crickets

out there,

out there

in another world

I didn’t

live

in.

 

we were at this table,

men and women,

after dinner.

somehow

the conversation got

around to

PMS.

one of the ladies

stated firmly that

the only cure for

PMS

was old

age.

there were other

remarks

that I have

forgotten,

except for one

which came from this

German guest

once married,

now divorced.

also, I had seen

him with

any number of

beautiful young

girlfriends.

anyhow, after quietly

listening

to our conversation

for some time

he asked us,

“what’s PMS?”

 

now here was one

truly touched

by

the angels.

 

the light was so

bright

we

all looked

away.

 

you haven’t lived

until you’ve been in a

flophouse

with nothing but one

light bulb

and 56 men

squeezed together

on cots

with everybody

snoring

at once

and some of those

snores

so

deep and

gross and

unbelievable—

dark

snotty

gross

subhuman

wheezings

from hell

itself.

 

your mind

almost breaks

under those

death-like

sounds

 

and the

intermingling

odors:

hard

unwashed socks

pissed and

shitted

underwear

 

and over it all

slowly circulating

air

much like that

emanating from

uncovered

garbage

cans.

 

and those

bodies

in the dark

 

fat and

thin

and

bent

 

some

legless

armless

 

some

mindless

 

and worst of

all:

the total

absence of

hope

 

it shrouds

them

covers them

totally.

it’s not

bearable.

 

you get

up

 

go out

 

walk the

streets

 

up and

down

sidewalks

 

past buildings

 

around the

corner

 

and back

up

the same

street

 

thinking

 

those men

were all

children

once

 

what has happened

to

them?

 

and what has

happened

to

me?

it’s dark

and cold

out

here.

 

sometimes I am hit

for change

3 or 4 times

in twenty minutes

and nine times out of

ten I’ll

give.

the time or two

that I don’t

I have an instinctive

reaction

not to

and I

don’t

but mostly I

dig and

give

but each time

I can’t help but

remember

the many times

hollow-eyed

my skin tight to the

ribs

my mind airy and

mad

I never asked

anybody

for anything

and it wasn’t

pride

it was simply because

I didn’t respect

them

didn’t regard them

as worthy human

beings.

they were the

enemy

and they still are

as I dig

in

and

give.

 

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles

where every 3rd lot was vacant

and it was a short ride to the orange

groves—

if you had a car and the

gas.

 

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles

too young to be a man and too old to

be a boy.

 

hard times.

a neighbor tried to rob our

house, my father caught him

climbing through the

window,

held him there in the dark

on the floor:

“you rotten son of a

bitch!”

 

“Henry, Henry, let me go,

let me go!”

 

“you son of a bitch, I’ll kill

you!”

 

my mother phoned the police.

 

another neighbor set his house on fire

in an attempt to collect the

insurance.

he was investigated and

jailed.

 

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles,

nothing to do, nowhere to go, listening to

the terrified talk of our parents

at night:

“what will we do? what will we

do?”

 

“god, I don’t know…”

 

starving dogs in the alleys, skin taut

across ribs, hair falling out, tongues

out, such sad eyes, sadder than any sadness

on earth.

 

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles,

the men of the neighborhood were quiet

and the women were like pale

statues.

 

the parks full of socialists,

communists, anarchists, standing on the park

benches, orating, agitating.

 

the sun came down through a clear sky and

the ocean was clean

and we were

neither men nor

boys.

 

we fed the dogs leftover pieces of dry hard

bread

which they ate gratefully,

eyes shining in

wonder,

tails waving at such

luck

 

as

World War II moved toward us,

even then, during those

hot summers in the mid-30’s in Los Angeles.