THE UNFOLDING
I don’t know
but I think sometimes that fellows like
Ezra and Céline and Ernie, Babe Ruth, Dillinger,
DiMaggio, Joe Louis, Kennedy, LaMotta,
Graziano, Willie Pep and Roosevelt
just had a little more than the
rest of us.
or is it just ballyhoo and nostalgia
which seems to separate them from
us?
actually, there are probably others
here among us
who are better at what they do
(or at least just as good)
as our heroes of the past
but
for us now
they are too close—
we pass them in the hall
see them waiting at stop lights
or buying
Xmas trees and windshield wipers
or we see them
standing quietly in line at the
post office.
one of the few grand things
in this life
are the brave and talented people
living
among
us
unnoticed.
life has both kind
and unkind
ways.
DRUNK BEFORE NOON
she knew Hemingway in Cuba
and she took a photo of him one day
drunk before noon—
stretched out on the floor
face puffed with drink
gut hanging out
hardly looking
macho
at all.
he heard the click of the camera,
lifted his head a bit from the
floor and
said, “honey, please don’t ever publish that
photo!”
I have the photo framed now
on the south wall
facing the door.
the lady gifted me
this.
now her book has just been
published in Italy and is
called
Hemingway.
there are many photos:
Hemingway with the lady and her
dog.
Hemingway’s work
room.
Hemingway’s library with mounted water buffalo
head.
Hemingway feeding a
cat.
Hemingway’s bed.
Hemingway and Mary, Venezia, 31
Ottobre 1948.
Hemingway, Venezia, Marzo
1954.
but
no photo
of Hemingway
soused before
noon.
for a man who was very good
with the word
the lady kept
hers.
THUMBS UP, THUMBS DOWN
“the acting was really good, wasn’t
it?” she asks.
“no,” I answer, “I didn’t like it.”
“oh?” she says.
I didn’t know what else to say.
once again we have disagreed on
a performance.
this time it was on tv.
I rise from the couch.
“please let the cat in,” she says.
I let the cat in.
then I walk up the stairway.
I won’t see my wife again until bedtime.
I sit here, light a cigar.
I can’t help it, it’s difficult for me to
like much of what is being currently
written and performed.
my wife tends to blame my
childhood, a certainly restricted and
loveless
upbringing.
yet I tend to believe, that in spite of
this, I still have the ability to make good
judgments.
well, things could be worse:
earthquake, a 6-day rain, a run-
over
cat.
I lean back, draw deeply on the
cigar, then let it all out:
a wondrous cloud of blue-gray
smoke
as my insufficient critical soul winks at
eternity and then
yawns.
THEY ARE AFTER ME
more and more I get letters
from young men who say they are
going to take my place, that I’ve had it too good
for too long, that they’re going to kick my ass,
strip me of my poetic black belt, etc.
I am astonished how sure
they are of their literary talent.
I suppose they have been bolstered
by their wives, girlfriends, mothers,
teachers, barbers, uncles, brothers,
waitresses and even the gas station
attendant.
but why would they want to knock
a nice guy like me off his perch?
I listen to Mahler, tip 20 percent, give
money to bums, get up each morning
and feed 9 cats.
why can’t I keep my black belt a little while
longer?
“you’ve had it, Chinaski, you’ve sold
out!
I’m the REAL ARTIST, you son-of-a-bitch,
and I’m out on the street!
I’m waiting for you outside right now, I’m
going to beat the shit out of you,
Chinaski!”
or they come to the door and if I don’t
respond, the night rings with their
curses and beer cans are flung against
the window.
all these ranting, raving, would-be poets!
and me, such a nice guy,
they want my charmed ass.
I’m sure I’ll be replaced some day, perhaps I already
have been replaced.
I understand how the literary game works.
I’ve had my fling, a long fling
and I’m old enough so that I could die in the wink of
an eye.
I shouldn’t be smoking this big cigar
or drinking one beer after
the other.
has my black belt already slipped down around
my ankles?
am I ready to step aside?
patience, patience, fellows, you’ll have
your day, not all, but one or two of
the best of you.
meanwhile, can’t you find somebody
else to badger?
must I always be a part of your agenda?
I’m a good guy, I haven’t punched anybody
in the mouth for ten years.
I even voted for the first time in my life.
I’m a responsible citizen
keep my car washed
greet my neighbors
talk to the mailman.
the owner of the neighborhood sushi bar bows to me
when I walk in.
yet the other day somebody mailed me
a letter, the pages smeared with
shit.
it seems like
every young poet wants my charmed ass!
please wait, fellows, I will accommodate you in time.
meanwhile, let me keep playing with my poem-toys,
let me continue for just a little
while longer!
thank
you.
FEELING FAIRLY GOOD TONIGHT
Thou shalt not fail as a writer
because the vultures are waiting in the wings ready
to swoop down and sign their
“I told you so’s.”
Thou shalt not fail as a writer
because the very act of writing is the best protection
from the madness of the
world.
Thou shalt not fail as a
writer
because it’s the finest form of self-entertainment
ever
invented.
but Thou shall be finished as a writer
upon the hour or day of your
demise
only to have thick new books of yours
appear for years afterwards compiled
from the stockpile of poems you
left behind for your
publisher.
let it be so:
these wisps of magic
wrested from the clutch
of
death.
THERE’S A POET ON EVERY BAR STOOL
I was with my lady
down at the beach.
she was an over-
sexed
young
lady.
she was on fire
with sex.
to her
sex was
everything:
the quivering
apex
the spouting
Nirvana.
that was
fine with me
although
I sometimes
longed for
other
things
too.
like I said,
I was with my lady
down at the beach.
we had stopped at
a little park
where
the old folks were
playing
shuffleboard.
I was
tired
after nights and
nights of
action
and in addition
I had failed her
miserably
the night
before.
the lady
pointed to
the old
folks.
they all seemed
to me to be
very pale,
slow,
drained.
“there!
over there! why don’t
you go join
THEM!”
well, I didn’t care much
for
shuffleboard.
I took her
by the elbow and
guided her into a
restaurant
along the
promenade.
we each had a cold
drink.
then I re-ordered
two more
and went to the
men’s room.
when I came out
she was engaged in a
lively chat
with a
young fellow
with a head
like
a pig.
I was not
jealous.
in fact,
I would not have
minded
at all
leaving them there alone
together
but
we had driven down
in her
car.
so
I walked over
and sat down
next to
her.
“hey!” she said
to me
brightly:
“this guy writes
poetry
too!”
“umm umm,”
I said,
lifted my glass
and took a
sip.
then I looked at
him
and smiled:
“I guess we both
are in the
same game.
good luck to
you …”
my lady was
taken aback by my
cordiality.
but
think about
it:
have you ever
tried riding a bus
from Ocean Park to
East Hollywood?
banging up
almost every day
against the
same young female
buckboard
may finally
drive an old man
to the edge of
his grave
but
there are worse
things.
VALET
I slide out of my battered
BMW
tell the valet,
“we accept but do not
offer mercy.”
he laughs, “hey, hey,
I like that!”
he is a chatty
sort.
he shows me his arm:
“look, that’s from a razor.
I was trying it one
night until I asked myself,
‘why should I disfigure
a beautiful body like
mine?’”
(he’s built like an
ape.)
“either way, you’re
right.”
“what do you
mean?”
“I mean, do it or
don’t, you’re
right.”
he grins: “hey,
yeah! that’s
true!”
we smile at one another.
“I hear you write books?”
he says.
“that’s true,
sometimes.”
“where can I buy your
shit?”
“here and there …”
there is a line of
cars building up behind
us. it is a hot stupid
Saturday.
they
begin to
honk.
“HEY, YOU GUYS, KNOCK IT
OFF!”
“THEY”RE PUTTING THEM IN THE
GATE!”
“CUT OUT THE SHIT!”
the mob never understands
exchanges of
culture.
I move toward the
clubhouse.
my valet friend gets in and
zooms off in my
battered
BMW.
yes,
almost
anything
makes a
poem.
PRESCIENCE
I was always charmed by
hypochromic beldams
inchoate slatterns,
caseated mesdames,
slimy prostitutes and
piss-drinking
shrews.
but now I prefer to
live alone and watch
as my cat sits in the
window
devouring an abandoned
cigarette.
10:45 A.M.
so I get up and go to the
bathroom,
throw water
on my face,
look at that mug
so long ago abandoned by beauty; I
wince, gag, giggle.
heroically.
hero poet
hero man
hero friend
hero hero
hero lover
hero bather
hero
bullshitter.
young girls wearing nylons
and garter belts like their mothers
used to
would love watching me here, watering a
plant, putting one white egg
into a small pot of boiling water.
I walk over
put one finger on the greasy refrigerator
door, draw a horse,
put the number 9 on him as
the phone rings
rings
rings
I lift it and say, “yes?”
fear bounding up and down my arms,
I don’t want to see any of them,
I don’t want to hear from them, they should
all vanish forever.
&nbs
p; what I need to protect me from them are
trenches, armies, the
blessing of a little luck.
“Hank?” says the voice, “how are you
doing?”
“o.k.,” I say.
THE HORSES OF MEXICO
in the old days before they had Sunday
racing in California,
I’d drive down to Tijuana in my
old car
to the Agua Caliente racetrack.
little did I realize that in Mexico the
take was 25%
(it was no wonder the prices were so
short)
and you had to pay the bandits
in parking a dollar for
“protection” or else there would be
something really wrong with your car when
you came back out.
I had fair luck with the betting down
there
but the service at the food stand
was slow and lousy but since
the bar was efficient I just went to the
bar.
but I never should have driven that
old car down there;
a breakdown and I surely would have been
stranded;
I had little money, no friends, no
parents,
but the car held up, the old dear.
on my good winning days, I’d
stay over a few hours that night in one of
the local bars;
that always seemed to make the drive
back shorter.
then Sunday racing began in
California
so why drive all that way?
a horse is a horse and a jock is a jock
and a race is a race,
but I miss Agua Caliente, that long long back
stretch which gave the jocks in a fixed
race plenty of time to pull their horses
back.
and those beautiful hills behind the track!
just getting out of the U.S.A. for a
day
cured a lot of what was driving me
crazy.
now I drive 20 miles to the local track
in a new car,
sit in the clubhouse with the other safe,
fat Americans
and I’m going really crazy all over
again but this time
without a cure.
A BIG NIGHT
the owner of the restaurant comes to our
table and starts philosophizing
about a number
of things: the national debt,
the necessity of war,
how to recognize a fine wine,
the mystery of love, etc.
of course, he says nothing new or
exceptional and the shrimp scampi
I am eating are
tough.
he laughs after each of his wise
pronouncements.
my wife smiles.
I nod.
the owner has been up front
singing with the piano player and
a couple of drunks.
he’s an old white-haired guy,
happy to be making money in the
business
but his singing is not too
good: more or less old–
fashioned, embarrassing,
sentimental,
and the shrimp are still