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    Mockingbird Wish Me Luck

    Page 9
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      each waiting their

      turn.

      she’s gone…

      somewhere.

      the remainder of the program loses

      some meaning,

      except a very sexy young

      chicano teacher

      in a yellow dress

      comes out and sings

      “Silent Night”

      in Spanish.

      meanwhile Mr. Doerflinger is seen running about,

      in this door, out that

      one, showing his buttocks,

      racing across the stage in some

      great

      urgency…

      “Doerflinger,” says somebody.

      he will not be forgotten by

      anybody. he will not allow himself to be,

      especially by the ladies.

      it goes on.

      “Let There Be Peace On Earth”

      we all sing together. the last number on the

      program.

      taxpayers forget Christmas, remember instead how nice your

      children are.

      we get back to the mother’s apartment

      and there is a notice that they will shut off

      the gas that

      day. the mother claims no previous

      notice has been

      received.

      I drive them down to 5th street

      in Santa Monica

      to the gas co.

      I wave

      goodbye. they stand on the corner.

      my daughter has a hole

      in her black

      tights,

      right

      knee…

      “Let there be peace on earth

      And let it begin with me.

      Let there be peace on earth,

      The peace that was meant to be.

      With God as our Father,

      Brothers all are we—

      Let me walk with my brother

      In perfect harmony.”

      marina:

      majestic, magic

      infinite

      my little girl is

      sun

      on the carpet—

      out the door

      picking a

      flower, ha!,

      an old man,

      battle-wrecked,

      emerges from his

      chair

      and she looks at me

      but only sees

      love,

      ha!, and I become

      quick with the world

      and love right back

      just like I was meant

      to do.

      one with dante

      I have lost it in Paradise Valley

      with 4 women sitting in a kitchen

      talking and laughing about men and love and life and

      sex,

      I have lost it in Paradise Valley

      I have lost the word and the way and the light,

      4 women sitting in the kitchen

      drinking gallons of

      coffee, and now

      I sit in front of a window

      looking at the desert,

      one with Dante,

      I wonder what the Paradise Valley ladies want.

      these 3 sisters and a friend.

      through this small window,

      I see children dogs cattle horses flies sand

      chickens ducks,

      I hear the names of men now from the kitchen

      and the girls laugh, and

      I wonder, what am I

      doing here?

      these girls…this continual examination of the senses

      and the ideas and the reasons and the facts and the

      moods

      destroys, destroys…

      I have lost it in Paradise Valley.

      you have to lose it somewhere:

      I chose Arizona; although the love

      last night was

      good, I am lost in the desert

      I have given it up.

      an interesting night

      my girlfriend

      she started smashing

      all my bottles

      my whiskey bottle and my

      beer bottles,

      meanwhile

      yelling and screaming,

      then she ran

      out the door.

      3 police arrived 5 minutes

      later,

      one holding shotgun,

      and they asked

      various questions,

      one of them being:

      what do you

      do?

      I’m a writer,

      I said.

      the cop smirked at

      me, walked over to the

      typewriter,

      picked up some papers

      and started

      reading.

      it was my 2,000 word essay

      on the meaning of

      suicide.

      he didn’t seem much

      interested.

      after they left

      I went all the way to

      Altadena

      and slept with a fine

      22 year old girl

      some pot

      3 cats

      3 homosexuals

      a 7 year old boy

      a dog, and

      a 24 by 20 photo

      of me

      hanging over the fireplace,

      looking

      wise.

      a threat to my immortality

      she undressed in front of me

      keeping her pussy to the front

      while I layed in bed with a bottle of

      beer.

      where’d you get that wart on

      your ass? I asked.

      that’s no wart, she said,

      that’s a mole, a kind of

      birthmark.

      that thing scares me, I said,

      let’s call

      it off.

      I got out of bed and

      walked into the other room and

      sat on the rocker

      and rocked.

      she walked out. now, listen, you

      old fart. you’ve got warts and scars and

      all kinds of things all over

      you. I do believe you’re the ugliest

      old man

      I’ve ever seen.

      forget that, I said, tell me some more

      about that

      mole on your butt.

      she walked into the other room

      and got dressed and then ran past me

      slammed the door

      and was

      gone.

      and to think,

      she’d read all my books of

      poetry too.

      I just hoped she wouldn’t tell

      anybody that

      I wasn’t pretty.

      climax

      I was somewhere…somewhere in Europe

      act II, scene II

      Siegfried…

      the whole building shook

      there was flame

      world ending,

      bodies hurled through air

      like mad

      clowns…

      the orchestra quit

      playing.

      “It’s the BOMB! THE

      BOMB!” somebody

      screamed. the bomb the bomb the bomb

      the bomb.

      I grabbed a fat blonde

      tore her dress away,

      gotterdammerung!

      “I don’t want to

      die!” said the

      blonde. the whole opera house was

      coming down. blood on the

      floor. more flame.

      smoke. smoke. screaming. it was

      terrible. I stuck it

      in.

      a man’s woman

      the dream of a man

      is a whore with a gold tooth

      and a garter belt,

      perfumed

      with false eyebrows

      mascara

      earrings

      light pink panties

      salami breath

      high heels

      long stockings with a ve
    ry slight

      run on back of left stocking,

      a little bit fat,

      a little bit drunk,

      a little bit silly and a little bit crazy

      who doesn’t tell dirty jokes

      and has 3 warts on her back

      and pretends to enjoy symphony music

      and who will stay a week

      just one week

      and wash the dishes and cook and fuck and suck

      and scrub the kitchen floor

      and not show any photos of her children

      or talk about her x-husband or husband

      or where she went to school or where she was born

      or why she went to jail last time

      or who she’s in love with,

      just stay one week

      just one week

      and do the thing and go and never come

      back

      for that one earring on the dresser.

      tight pink dress

      I read where this 44 year old soprano of some fame

      fell out of a 4 story window

      and killed herself, well, I suppose this is all right

      for sopranos of some fame, but

      I think that 8 stories is more

      reasonable.

      I know this woman, a sister of the mother of my

      child, some years back

      her husband divorced her

      and she jumped out of a 4 story window

      and broke both legs

      and other assorted parts.

      maybe that soprano just wasn’t as tough as she was;

      well, Helen got over the broken leg and parts,

      and she came around one day to my place in a nice tight

      pink dress, and we were alone but

      nothing happened, I didn’t want it to,

      and we talked

      and now she is really married to something,

      one of the most obnoxious souls

      that I know…

      “he plays the flute,” says the mother of my child,

      “they get along…”

      he came to see me one time and I ran him out the door:

      he packed death around with him like breath chasers.

      I’ve advised her to go 12 stories high

      when this one fails…

      I should have taken her the day she arrived in her

      tight pink dress…

      this guy and his flute…

      he probably shits flutes…

      and Helen with all that money, you think she might have

      done better.

      more or less, for julie:

      on the Hammond or through the bomb-shadowed window,

      through steak turned blue with the rot of drunken days,

      through signature and saliva

      through Savannah,

      dark running streets like veins

      caught in a juniper brush, through love spilled

      behind a broken shade on an October day;

      through forms and windows and lines,

      through a book by Kafka stained with wine,

      through wives and friends and jails,

      standing young once

      hearing Beethoven or Bruckner,

      or even riding a bicycle,

      young as that,

      impossible,

      coming across the bridge

      in Philadelphia

      and meeting your first whore,

      falling on the ice, drunk and numbed,

      you picking up she, she picking up he,

      until at last, laughing across all barriers,

      no marriage was ever more innocent or blessed,

      and I remember her name and yes her eyes,

      and a small mole on her left shoulder,

      and so we go down, down in sadness, sadness,

      sitting in a grease-stained room

      listening to the corn boil.

      this is the way it goes and goes and goes

      “All your writing about pain and suffering is a bunch of bullshit.”—

      just because I told you that rock music

      hurts my head

      just because we have slept and awakened and

      eaten together

      just because we’ve been in cars and at racetracks

      together

      in parks in bathtubs in rooms

      together

      just because we’ve seen the same swan and the same

      dog at the same time

      just because we’ve seen the same wind blow the same

      curtain

      you have suddenly become a literary critic

      just because you have sculpted my head

      and read my books

      and told me of your loves and your flirtations and

      your travels

      just because I know the name of your daughter

      and have changed a flat tire for you

      you have suddenly become a literary critic

      just because you’ve had 3 poems accepted by a mimeo mag

      just because you’re writing a novel about your own madness

      just because you shake your ass and have long brown hair

      you have suddenly become a literary critic

      just because I have fucked you 144 times

      you have suddenly become a literary critic

      well, then, tell me,

      of all these writers…who’s pain is real?

      what? yes, I might have

      guessed—your pain is

      real. so, in the best interest of us all

      wave goodbye to the living who have lost the strength

      to weep, and

      as white ladies in pink rooms put on

      blue and green earrings,

      wave goodbye to me.

      left with the dog

      men in white t-shirts (unbothered

      by life) are walking their

      dogs

      outside

      as I watch a professional basketball

      game on

      t.v. and

      I have no interest

      in who will win but I do notice

      a lady in the grandstand crossing

      her legs (my editor phoned me last night at 10:15 p.m. and

      found me asleep—

      maybe that’s why he has to

      print the unpublished works of

      Gertrude Stein).

      very bad

      symphony music now

      (I mean bad for me)

      the violin sings of dank life and the

      grave and I am a student of

      both.

      here now

      my love has gone looking

      for an apartment in Venice,

      California and

      she has left me with her

      dog (a not quite immaculate creature named

      Stubby

      who sits behind my chair listening to a violin and

      a typewriter).

      they say

      fire-eaters, traffic cops, boxers and

      clerks in department stores

      sometimes know the

      truth. (I do what I

      can.)

      the best one can settle for

      is an afternoon

      with the rent paid, some food in the refrigerator,

      and death something like

      a bad painting by a bad painter

      (that you finally buy because there’s not

      anything else

      around).

      my love has gone looking for an apartment

      in Venice, California across the top of the sky

      something marches upsidedown;

      praying for a best seller

      waiting for my novelist friend to put the

      word down

      she sits in the kitchen

      thinking about the madhouse

      thinking about her x-husband

      while I entertain her 3 year old child

      who is now in the bathtub;

      well, listen, I guess after a madhouse or

      2 you need a f
    ew breaks…

      my novelist friend may be crazy now

      or she wouldn’t be in the same house

      with me,

      or maybe I’m the one who’s crazy:

      she’s told me a couple of times she’s going to

      cut off my balls if I do this thing or

      that thing.

      well, taking a chance with my balls on the line

      that way

      it had better be a good novel

      or at least a bad one that is a best seller.

      I sit here rolling cigarette after cigarette

      while listening to her

      type.

      I suppose that for each genius launched

      5 or 6 people must suffer for

      it

      them

      him

      her.

      very well.

      that one

      your child has no name

      your hair has no color

      your face has no flesh

      your feet have no toes

      your country has ten flags

      your voice has no tongue

      your ideas slide like snakes

      your eyes do not match

      you eat bouquets of flowers

      throw poisoned meat to the dogs

      I see you linger in alleys with a club

      I see you with a knife for anybody

      I see you peddling a fishhead for a heart

      and when the sun comes churning down

      you’ll come walking in from the kitchen

     


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