to have a cork-lined room built for
himself but it still didn’t improve his
work. I think I’ll take my chances
this way.
fog
worst fog
I ever saw
was driving back from
the beach
with my buddy Desmond
when
it came
in
it was so thick
you
could cut it with
your proverbial
knife.
and we were quite
drunk
we couldn’t pull
over because
we were afraid of
hitting cars already parked
at the
curb
but we stopped a
moment and
Desmond climbed up
on the hood
and knelt there
and said, “o.k.,
let’s go, I’ll
guide you!”
and I started
up and
Desmond yelled,
“SHIT! I CAN’T
SEE ANYTHING!”
and he began
laughing and I
began laughing
I could barely
see his ass
bunched up there on
the hood
and then he
said it
again: “SHIT!
I CAN’T SEE
ANYTHING!”
and we both began
laughing again
harder
a laughter we
couldn’t stop
the fog all
around us
as we drove
on
we just kept
driving and
laughing
we slipped through
intersection after
intersection
often hearing
engines and horns
but seeing
nothing
until at one
intersection the
fog lifted a
bit
I could make out
a gas station
a café
there was a
green light
and
Desmond was
missing
I pulled over
and parked in the
gas station and
waited
and there came
Desmond walking up
through the
fog
I hollered and
waved and he saw
me
ran to the car
and got in
we drove on into
L.A.
a week later
he went to
Illinois to see
the wife he
had
split with
and I never
saw him
again.
free?
there’s an airline
they offer free champagne
but I’ve been there
before.
when the stewardess came by
I said, no.
it came right out of the
bottle.
the stewardesses went up and down
pouring refills.
it was a smooth flight
but then it
began:
restroom runs.
lines formed.
the barf bags came
out.
I sat there
listening to the
moaning and the
puking.
when we got to the airport
some were still
going at
it.
some puked as they waited for their
baggage. others puked on the
escalators and in the parking lot.
some puked in their cars while
driving home. some were still puking at
home.
when I got home
I switched on the news
opened a cold beer
and let the bath water
run.
imported punch
they keep bringing fighters up
from Brazil and Argentina
with records like 11–2–1 or
7–4–0
and they’re all 27 or 28 years
old
and they put them in with
our boys
with records like
22–0–0,
ages 21 or
22.
the Brazilians and Argentines
fight proudly
and
they hardly lack
guts
but they are built
short and slow
still use boxing
techniques that went out
in the
twenties.
it’s more than sad
and I wonder what
these Brazilians and
Argentines think
after they are
bloodied
and then
k.o.’d?
it’s just
another dumb fucking flight
back to South America
for them
as they pass their
compatriots
flying North
with no chance
at all.
it was an UNDERWOOD
my poems keep renouncing each
other—
this one says this
and that one says that,
and the other says something else
but I find it humorous
as they battle back and
forth—
angry featherweights, well,
maybe welterweights,
and then I walk into a stationery store—
after all that furious battle—
look at the typewriter ribbons
and can’t remember
the name of
the machine.
even my typewriter
renounces itself—
“pardon me,” I squeeze by the girl at the
register, “they didn’t have
what I wanted.”
then I walk across the way
where they do
and buy 6 of those
brews that made
Milwaukee
famous.
the creation coffin
the ability to suffer and endure,
that’s nobility, friend.
the ability to suffer and endure
for an idea, a feeling, a way,
that’s art, my friend.
the ability to suffer and endure
when love fails,
that’s hell, old friend.
nobility, art and hell,
let’s talk about art for a while.
destiny is my crippled daughter.
look here, it’s difficult,
me against them,
with them.
Ka
fka, let me in!
Hemingway beware!
Hegel, you’re funny!
Cervantes, you mean you wrote that
novel at the age of
80?
great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper.
good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
become immortal.
if you read this after I am long dead
it means I made it.
so writers of the world
it’s your turn now
to misuse your wife
abuse your children
love thyself
live off the funds of others
dislike all art created before and
during your time,
and dislike or even hate humanity
singly or en masse.
bastards, even if you read this
after I am long dead
forget about me. I
probably wasn’t that
good.
the 7 horse
two old guys behind me are talking.
“look at the 7 horse. he’s 35-to-1.
how can he be 35-to-1?”
“yeah, he looks good to me too,” says
the other old guy.
“let’s bet him.”
they get up to make their bets.
I’ve already bet. I’ve got 40-win
on the 2nd favorite.
I win four days out of five at the
racetrack. it doesn’t seem to be
a problem.
I open my newspaper, read the financial
section, get depressed, turn to the front
page looking for robbery, rape, murder.
the two old men are back.
“look, the 7 horse is 40-to-1 now,”
says one of them.
“I can’t believe it!” says the
other.
the horses are loaded into the gate, the
flag goes up, the bell rings, they break
out.
it’s a mile-and-one-sixteenth, they
take the first turn, go down the backstretch,
circle the last turn, come down the homestretch, get
to the finish line.
the 2nd favorite wins by a neck, pays
$7.80. I make $116.00.
there is silence behind me.
then one of the old men says, “the 7 horse
didn’t run at all.”
“nope,” says the other, “I don’t understand
it.”
“maybe the jock didn’t try,” says
his friend.
“that must be it,” says
the other.
like most others in the world
they believe that failure
is caused by some factor
besides themselves.
I watch the two old guys as they
bend over their Racing Form
to make a selection in the
next race.
“gee, look at this!” says one of them.
“they got Red Rabbit 10-to-1
on the morning line. he looks better
than the favorite.”
“let’s bet him,” says the other old
guy.
they leave their seats and move gently to the
betting window
the suicide
I had recently buried a woman I lived with
for three years
was between jobs
my teeth rotting in my mouth
(I burned away the pain with aspirin and
beer).
I was sitting on the broken couch
watching evening change into night
when the phone rang.
it was Morrie.
“yes, Morrie?”
“listen, Mark’s here. he says he’s got to
see you! he says he’s going to commit
suicide!”
“put him on…”
“no, he can’t talk, he’s over the
edge!”
I stepped on a passing roach.
“give me your father,” I told him.
Bernie took the wire.
“listen, Bernie,” I said, “what’s this
bullshit about Mark?”
“it’s true! he said that if you don’t
get over here now he’s going to kill himself!
he needs help, Hank!”
“you think he’s really going to
do it?”
“I wouldn’t kid about a thing like
this!”
“it’s a long way to San Bernardino.”
“it’s only 50 miles! you can make it
in 45 minutes.”
“all right, Bernie…”
I finished my beer, walked to my
12-year-old car.
it started and I got on the
freeway.
it was a long, drab, stupid ride.
Mark was one of those people who
always insisted that our friendship
was real
no matter how much effort I
exerted to
stay away from him.
I finally pulled up in front of the
house.
I got out of the car, knocked.
Morrie answered the door.
he had a head tic.
when something upset him his
head started jumping.
it was jumping all over in
the doorway.
“Mark’s been staying with us,”
he said, “for the last couple of
weeks.”
I walked in.
Mark was sitting on the couch
holding a beer.
he smiled at me.
he was dressed in Bernie’s old
bathrobe.
he didn’t look
as if he was
contemplating
suicide.
“where’s your father?” I asked
Morrie.
“he went to sleep. he went to
bed. he isn’t feeling
good.”
“it’s only 7:30.”
“he isn’t feeling good.”
I sat down. there was a fire going
in the fireplace.
“how about a beer?” Morrie asked,
his head jumping.
“sure. where’s your mother?”
“she’s not home.”
Mark cleared his throat. then, in his
quiet voice he began to talk about
his writing: he was now into serial killers. he
had written a novel. he had an
agent. he’d been over to see her that
afternoon. she had a swimming pool. they
had had a swim together in her pool. she
was a looker with great connections. she
realized that his writing was exceptional.
she was going to take over his career and
make him famous and…
I tuned him out as he went on and on.
he was wearing a silk scarf around his fat
neck.
I finished my beer and Morrie jumped up,
head bobbing, and got me another.
then I heard Mark’s voice again. “your
writing reminds me a great deal of my
own!”
Morrie gave me the beer. I took a
good hit and looked into the fire. a
piece of wood cracked in the moment, a
red spark broke off, shot up, fell
back.
it was nice. it was nice and somehow
reassuring.
“I’d like you to read a chapter from my
novel,” Mark said. “do you have that blue
folder, Morrie?”
Morrie had it. he placed it carefully on my
lap.
I opened it, went to the first page
and began reading…
Mark couldn’t write, never could.
I read on, my teeth beginning to ache.
I asked Morrie,
“you got any whiskey?”
Morrie went for it as Mark sat straight
up in Morrie’s old bathrobe, waiting
for my words of praise.
I would find a way of letting him down easily
I hoped
without lying.
the whiskey came and I gulped it down
went on reading
drinking
watching the fire.
Morrie’s head kept leaping.
why do some individuals never realize how
wearisome they are?
or do they know and simply don’t
care?
I read on, hopeless-
ly
overcast
I went to see my daughter.