CHARLESBUKOWSKI

the night torn madwith footsteps

NEW POEMS

table of contents

131.

15one writer’s funeral

17beagle

18a smile to remember

19where was Jane?

21the fish with yellow eyes and green fins leaps into thevolcano

231966 Volkswagen minivan

25his cap

27luck from a kitchen

29it was just a little while ago

30the fight game

33a lady who wants to help?

35Carson McCullers

36a happening

38albums

40makeover

41centuries of lies

43too tough to care

45funny man

48a fan

49Christ in his manger

54the priest

561810-1856

57back to the machine gun

58love dead like a crushed fly

64it beats love

65the automobiles of DeLongpre

6640 years ago

70the counter revolution

75a definition

78Gothic and etc.

80Brando

82rogue’s gallery

85media

88I was wrong

892.

91up, down and all around

92the main course

95it’s all music

96my cat, the writer

99one for the road

100room 22

104she caught it on the fly

105a drink to that

107sit and endure

108out of the money

1104 cops

112my girlfriend says it’s all so easy

114American Literature II

115heartache

117I cause some remarkable creativity

119the cosmic joke

121the death of the snowman

126shut out

127the machine gunner

1292 deaths

130schoolyards of forever

133beaujolais jadot

135bar chatter

137punched-out

139counterpoint

1403 pairs of panties

141this drunk

143Casablanca

146the saddest words I ever heard

148the light

150the closing of the bottomless bar

152fame of a sort

153never look

155now the professors

158the hatchet job

160shack jobs

161ground zero

162my telephone

164exactly right

1653.

167progress

169Carter

172two cats asleep downstairs and death itself no problem

173the pro

176pain like a black-and-white snapshot

178Life, Death, Love, Art

186sometimes when you get the blues there’s a reason

187the Word

189my nudie dancer

198I can’t see anything

199not exactly the sun

201the doomed lady poet

203the eternal horseplayers

204first day, first job

207long sad story

209the theory of the leisure class

210divorce

213no wonder

215macho hell

217you know who’s best

218he died April 9, 1553

220pick-up

222it’s all right

223one of those crazy nights

225urban war

227good pay

231panasonic

232out of place

234a great place, here

236horses don’t bet on people and neither do I…

238my failure

240in memory of a dead jock

242repeat

244now you know why we kiss the wall

246that’s who sent them

247it’s just me

251then I know why

253her only son

255the wrong way

2574.

259I move to the city of San Pedro

263be angry at San Pedro

265lost in San Pedro

267justice

269a boor

273out of the dark

274for the foxes

277poem for Brigitte Bardot

279having the flu and with nothing else to do

280a time to remember

281“I demand a little respect”

283pink silks

285milk a cow and you get milk

286oh, to be young in 1942!

289the condition book

290the kid from Santiago

292room service

294passport

296darlings of the word

299KFAC

301it is good to know when you are done

303TB

305a song with no end

306the lucky ones

308spelling it out on my computer

309crazy as a fox

310cats and you and me

312they need what they need

313hello, how are you?

314one thirty-six a.m.

316harbor freeway south

319gamblers all

320guitars

325no man is an island

327an animal poem

329eulogy

331two writers

335small conversation in the afternoon with John Fante

336girl on the escalator

338one learns

340the beginning of a brief love affair

341melodies that echo

343self-inflicted wounds

345racetrack parking lot at the end of the day

348moving toward what?

350if I had failed to make the struggle

352wine pulse

about the author

other books by charles bukowski

cover

copyright

about the publisher

1

like the foxI run with the huntedand if I’m notthe happiest manon earthI’m surely the luckiest manalive.

one writer’s funeral

there was a rock-and-mud slideon the Pacific Coast Highway and we had to take adetour and they directed us up into the Malibu hillsand traffic was slow and it was hot, and thenwe were lost.but I spotted a hearse and said, “there’s thehearse, we’ll follow it,” and my woman said“that’s not the hearse,” and I said, “yes, that’s thehearse.”

the hearse took a left and I followedit as it went upa narrow dirt road and then pulled over and Ithought, “he’s lost too.” there was a truck and a manselling strawberries parked thereand I pulled overand askedwhere the church was and he gave me directions andmy woman told the strawberry man, “we’ll buy somestrawberries on the way back.” then I swungonto the road and the hearse started up againand we continued to drive alonguntil we reached thatchurch.

we were goingto the funeral of a great manbutthe crowd was very sparse: thefamily, a couple of old screenwriter friends,two or three others. wespoke to the family and to the wife of the deceasedand then we went in and the service began and thepriest wasn’t so good but one of the great man’ssons gave a fine eulogy, and then it was over

15

and we were outside again, in our car,following the hearse again, back down the steeproadpassing the strawberry truck again and mywoman said, “let’s not stop for strawberries,”and as we continued to the graveyard, I thought,Fante, you were one of the best writers everand this is one sad day.finally we were at the graveside, the priestsaid a few words and then it was over.I walked up to the widow who sat very pale andbeautiful and quite alone on a folding metal chair.“Hank,” she said, “it’s hard,” and I tried in vainto say something that might comfort her.

we walked away then, leaving her there, andI felt terrible.

I got a friend to drive my girlfriend back totown while I drove to the racetrack, made itjust in time for the first race, got my betdown as the mutuel clerk looked at me in wonder andsaid, “Jesus Christ, how come you’re wearing anecktie?”

16

beagle

do not bother the beagle lying thereaway from grass and flowers and paths,dreaming dogdreams, or perhaps dreamingnothing, as men do awake;yes, leave him be, in that simple juxtaposition,out of the maelstrom, lucifugous as a bat,searching bat-inwardfor a state of grace.

it’s good. we’ll not ransom our fateor his for door knobs or rasps.the east wind whirls the blinds,our beagle snuffles in his sleep asoutside, outside,hedges break, the night torn madwith footsteps.

our beagle spreads a paw,the lamp burns warmbathed in the life of hissize.

17

a smile to remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and aroundin the bowl on the table near the heavy drapescovering the picture window andmy mother, always smiling, wanting us allto be happy, told me, “be happy, Henry!”and she was right: it’s better to be happy if youcanbut my father continued to beat her and me several times a weekwhileraging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn’tunderstand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times aweek, telling me to be happy: “Henry, smile!why don’t you ever smile?”

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was thesaddest smile I ever saw.

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,they floated on the water, on their sides, theireyes still open,and when my father got home he threw them to the catthere on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mothersmiled.

18

where was Jane?

one of the first actors to play Tarzan was living at theMotion Picture Home.he’d been there for years waiting to die.he spent much of his timerunning in and out of the wardsinto the cafeteria and out into the yard where he’d yell,“ME TARZAN!”he never spoke to anyone or said anything else, it was always just“ME TARZAN!”everybody liked him: the old actors, the retired directors,the ancient script writers, the aged cameramen, the prop men, stuntmen, the oldactresses, all of whom were also therewaiting to die; they enjoyed his verve,his antics, he was harmless and he took them back to the time whentheywere still in the business.

then the doctors in authority decided that Tarzan was possiblydangerousand one day he was shipped off to a mental institution.he vanished as suddenly as if he’d been eaten by alion.and the other patients were outraged, they instituted legal proceedingsto have him returned at once butit took some months.

when Tarzan returned he was changed.he would not leave his room.he just sat by the window as if he hadforgottenhis old roleand the other patients missedhis antics, his verve, and

19

they too felt somehow defeated anddiminished.they complained about the change in Tarzandoped and drugged in his roomand they knew he would soon die like thatand then he didand then he was back in that other jungle(to where we will all someday retire)unleashing the joyful primal call they could no longerhear.

there were some small notices in thenewspapersand the paint continued to chip from the hospitalwalls,many plants died, there was an unfortunatesuicide,a growing lack of trust andhope, anda pervasive sadness:it wasn’t so much Tarzan’s death the others mourned,it was the cold, willful attitude of theyoung and powerful doctorsdespite the wishes of thehelpless old.

and finally they knew the truthwhile sitting in their roomsthat it wasn’t only the attitude of the doctorsthey had to fear,and that as silly as all those Tarzan films had been,and as much as they would miss their own lostTarzan,that all that was much kinder than the final vigilthey would now have to sit and patiently endurealone.

20

the fish with yellow eyes andgreen fins leaps into the volcano

sometimes dogsin the alleyplay the violin betterthan the privileged peacockswho swim in butter.I speak now of youngdogs inold rooms of peeling wallpaper andthe bathroom down the hall—always withsomebody in there.

you should have seen that place in Philly, just 2 dollars a week,she said, and it was up under the atticroof.just what I need, I thought, I can live here FOREVER andKREE-ATE.

godit was HOT that first afternoon in there trundled away from theworld in my artistic sanctuary (Lawrence had Taos) but myTaos was so HOT I drank my way through it, thinking, I will write atnight.

but when night came I passed out.and I was to find that mornings were the worst: sick, I wouldbe awakened at 5 a.m. by 20 or 30 pigeons walking on theroof—making their terrible sounds:“koo, koo, koo…”

and I’d go to the little window and look out and there they wouldbe strutting about, shitting little white dots, their dumb rubber necks

21

jerking.

but I still knew (despite my 2-bit cheap insanity)that there was an awful lot of bad writing out there beingcalled great, which really was no better than what I coulddo under that Philly roof

but I decided to get out of thereand find another place to live and writeand maybe some day give the haters something real tohate.

22

1966 Volkswagen minivan

there goes Bach again butone wonders how much longer we can hold on?it’s good musicgreat musicbut I mean and I wonder:how much longer will we be able to hearwhat he has to say?question marks are sometimesdiscouraging.as we become more and moredispossessedgiants like Bach will vanishfrom our thoughts and lives andthe taste and touch of his musicwill be like finding my love deadjust deadeyes closedher body still softstill warmher hair spilling over my forearm.

I listen to Bach as often as I canand my love is driving over here this eveningin her 1966 Volkswagen vanas I chill the wine and wait.

her hair is the strangest color:red mixed with goldas conquering armiessmash snailssmash daffodils.

she has small handssmall feet.

23

we fightwe often laugh.

I am listening to Bach now.the music stops.

she drives that damned mini-bus like arowboat over the rapids

if she would listen to my heartshe’d go slowermuch slower.

please let me diefirst becauseI am older

much older.listen Bach, your god and my godare real buthelpful only in spurts.I want you totell me that everything is allrightand that her red and gold hair will bespreadupon my pillow again.

her small feether small handsher fingers stroking my eyes andmy ears and her laugh comfortingme.

24

his cap

there was an old guy used to walk hisdog in the neighborhood;the dog wasn’t particularly interestingand neither was he.the dog was black-and-white, spotted,medium-sized andthe old guywore baggy pants and a sweater, butmost appealing was the small cap which heworeflat on top of his headalmost like an afterthought.I used to watch him walk hishound(they were both medium-sized)just as evening was slipping intonight.they gave the neighborhood a sense ofpeace and predictabilityand an old-school stabilitythat we needed.

they made the neighborhood.

the evening finally came whenthe old guy and the dogwere walking along the sidewalktoward meas I walked toward them.

as they came closer I hesitated.the hound was sniffing,moving forward, jerking at the leashand the old guyfollowed

25

neither leading nor beingledand since it was such a pleasant eveningI wasn’t afraid to speak:

“hi there!” I said.

“good evening,” he said.

the hound moved on past meand the old guy followed him along.he and the dog went off downthe street, the dog stoppingnow and then toexamine thelawns.

I watched them as they wentto the corner where theymade their turn and weregone.

it was not long after thatthat I moved out of theneighborhood.

personally, I might stopwriting stuff like this somedayif I can find a wayshort of death and/orsenility

but, personally, things likethat old guy, his cap and his spotteddog make it hardto stop.

26

luck from a kitchen

what matters is still being here inthis kitchen with my small radio, thisrolled cigarette andwith a two-foot stack of fresh bluelaundry.I’m sure I’ve sprayedthe last of the roaches andwhat matters is that this tabletopis littered with new poems.two drunks fight in the apartmentto the rear, the cats walkup and down the courtyardand around the cornergirls sit in massage parlordoorwaysdreaming of love.

what matters is that I still haveafter all that has precededpoems leftme leftand these walls that I have alwayslovedin all the cities and in all theplaces I have lived,these walls are still here andmy radio plays.this Royal Standard typer(which I have had for 7 years)sometimes doesn’t work for 2 or3 days and then my hair begins tofall out, I have troublepronouncing a simple sentence,I break out in an itchyrash and then

27

the Royal begins againalmost by itself.that matters much more thanthose two drunks fighting inthe apartment to the rearor the flame of heaven locked tightinside my coffee jar.

my radio gives me good, kindmusic tonight.

28

it was just a little while ago

almost dawnblackbirds on the telephone wirewaitingas I eat yesterday’sforgotten sandwichat 6 a.m.on a quiet Sunday morning.

one shoe in the cornerstanding uprightthe other laying on itsside.

yes, some lives were made to bewasted.

29

the fight game

a new boy:he runs off 7straight wins andthey put him in with theold tiger.a 2-to-oneunderdoghe gets a split decision winover thetiger.

then at even moneyhe knocks off the#3challenger.

now he’s seen in thenightspotsalways a new girl on hisarmand there are whispers of theneedle.

he’s no longer angry in thegymand each new girl on hisarmis sexier than thelast.

then it’s in the papers:he punches a cop who pulls him overfor speeding.he gets in a fightsomething about a guy who

30

cut him off intraffic.

but he’s bailedout smiling andconfident.

then he signs tomeet the #2 challenger

and against #2he has no punchno speedno footwork andhe’s k.o.’d in the3rd.

next they put him with a guyfrom Phillywho hasn’t fought in 3years.

the guy gets him in1:59 of thefirst.

they put the guy from Philly inwith the oldtiger and

the old tiger gets himin 1:33 of thesecond.

and where do the sexy girls go?from Rome to Hong Kongwhere do they go?

they too go backfinallyto the semi-finals and

31

the 4-rounders.

it works that wayfor almost everyone.sorrow is notalways quick to arrive butit’s alwayswaitingthere.

32

a lady who wants to help?

Chinaski, she says, sitting in the chair acrossfrom meher dress pulled uparound her fat legsthe varicose veins peeking at melike little blue snakesher dirty garter belt tugging at stubbornfleshher full mouth heavy with lipstick likean animal mouth in a dream gone badher breasts like water balloons gonemad with sagging

Chinaski, she says, you think youwrite great stuff but it’s all onlya pisspot full of dirtywords!

then she leans back and lights acigaretteinhalesexhales a stinging cloud of vile smokeat me andthen asks,well?

I don’t think you’ve ever really read mystuff, I tellher.

bullshit, she says, recrossing herlegs, now what I wanna suggestis that we form a writingpartnership.we’ll work together

33

as a teamand publish everythingunder your name.

you mean, I ask, that you’ll clean up my stuffmake it respectablemove in here with meand scratch my back withyours?

exactly.

I think not, I tellher.

well, fuck you then! shescreams.

thank god, I think,as she storms out of the roomthank god younever will.

34

Carson McCullers

she died of alcoholismwrapped in a blanketon a deck chairon an oceansteamer.

all her books ofterrified loneliness

all her books aboutthe crueltyof loveless love

were all that was leftof her

as the strolling vacationerdiscovered her body

notified the captain

and she was quickly dispatchedto somewhere elseon the ship

as everythingcontinued justasshe had written it.

35

a happening

he was always a first-rate jock,I’ve watched him ride for many yearson many an afternoon at Del Mar, Hollywood Park,Santa Anita.

early this yearhis wife committed a terriblesuicide.

those who knew him well said thathe would never rideagain.

and he didn’t ride for awhile.

then one afternoon heaccepted a mountand as the horses came outfor the postparadeand he rode intoviewthe applausebegan—a gentlesteady applause—itcontinued for manyminutesand many a sentimentalhorseplayerhad toturn awayto hide thetears.

36

thenin that racehe came drivingdown the stretchjust to missat the photo finish.

all he said later to thereporters was: “it seems tostrange to come home andnot find herthere.”

since thenhe has been ridingwith a style and anabandon that isunbelievable:driving through small gapsbetween horsesor dangerously along therail.

he is nowthe leading jockandhe continues towin.

people have not seensuch riding indecades.

he’s the tiger in thesun.

he’s each one of usaloneforeverfiercely ignoringthepain.

37

albums

I sat in my cheap room, a young mantotally out of place in the world.I hardly ate, just wine andclassical musicsustainedme.

I lived like a god-damned fly, or maybe likea confusedrat.where I scrounged funds, I no longerremember.

but I do remember the record storewhere you could exchange 3 used albums for2.

by buying the occasional album and by continuouslytradingI gradually listened to almost all theclassical albumsin that store.

but since I was broke most of the timeI was often forced to play the 2 albumson handover and over andover.

I drank and listeneduntileach note and musical phraseon those albumsbecame part ofme

38

forever.

nowdecades laterI sometimes hearone of those familiar albumson the radio—the same conductor, the sameorchestra—and I immediatelyturn the volumeup

and fondly rememberthat distantmelancholytime.

39

makeover

it’s not hard to tear upa bad poem.it’s much harder to discarda woman who was oncegoodbut has now been destroyed bydrugsand has become somethingharsh andfragmented.

where did she goand why?

it’s not hard to tear upa bad poemyou can probably writea better one.

but when a human being is destroyedis there always a reason?

of course, of course, ofcourse.

but the grief is justthe sameand the jokeis one of the dirtiest onesin this town orin any other townwhere the dead dealdeathto the dying.

40

centuries of lies

an acquaintance writes from Paristo saythat they are stilltalking about the timeI fucked upon French prime timeTVsome years ago.

it’s all a laugh to me nowbecause I remember so very littleabout itbut it manages to sella few extra copies of my booksover thereto some intellectualsfor all the wrong reasons.

it was the same with the criticswho thought it was greatthat I didn’t want to visitSartre.

the critics believed that I was puttinghimdownwhen it was only thatI didn’t know what to sayto the old manwho I thought was a very finewriter.

it seems that when things getrolling your wayyou get more and more credit

41

for accomplishing great things than younever even thought of

and soon an extra layer of mythsurrounds your workthat is not to be believedbut it is believednonethelessand that is why so manyso-called geniuses are reallyassholesand why so many assholes areso-called literarycritics.

42

too tough to care

there’s this great big guy who comes to see me, he sitsin my big chair and starts smoking his cigarsand I bring out the wineand we pour it down.the big guy just gulps them down and I gulpright along with him.he doesn’t say much, he’s a stoic.

other people say, “Jesus, Hank,what do you see in that guy?”and I say, “hey, he’s my hero, every man has to have ahero.”

the big guy just keeps lighting cigars and drinking.he never even gets up to piss, he doesn’t haveto.he doesn’t bother.

he smokes ten cigars a night and matches medrink for drink.sometimes he drinks even morethan I do.he doesn’t blink.I don’t either.

even when we talk about women weagree.

it’s best when we’re alone because he nevertalks to other people.

somehow I never remember himleaving.in the morning the chair is still there

43

and all the cigar stubs andall the empty bottles but he’sgone.

what I like best is that he never disturbs theimage I have of him.he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch and I’m atough son-of-a-bitchand we meet about onceevery 3 months and put on our littleperformance.anything more than that wouldkill usboth.

44

funny man

Mr. Geomethel liked to give parties on Saturday afternoonat his home. we always got an invitation. I think it wasmy 3rd or 4th wife, she always wanted to go, and she’dkeep at me until it was more miserable to stay home with herthan to go there. so that day she won, we drove to EchoPark, parked above on the hill, stared down at the smallgrey house, the people standing in the yard looking as dullas last week’s race results. however, she seemed to beexcited to see them. I suppose I kept her too much awayfrom that sort of thing, she was a country girl, honest andhealthy and full of fondness for people and fun. (me, Iliked to eat candy bars in bed alone with just her as she hadthe most marvelous dark brown eyes.) we went down the pathto where many people were standing in the sun with Mr.Geomethel beside the little grey house with the many chuckholes in the neglected lawn and everybody holding tight tosome odd impulse, some mysterious reason for being there (butwhen you looked hard into their eyes you could see just ashadow of doubt in the back of their brains). my countrygirl liked everybody, not only Mr. Geomethel but Chuck andRandy and Lila and Creasefoot (the dog). she, my 3rd or 4thwife, went from this person to that, from this group to that,finding intense and interesting things to discuss. I drankwhat I could of the very bad wine. I vomited secretly behinda bush as she suddenly vanished, wanting me to search for her,puked again, drank a bit more, waited and said yes orno to a few questions passing by in the air. then sheappeared once again to tell me that Mr. Geomethel had takenher to his bedroom to show her his paintings, and she wassurprised, she said, because they were very good.

every man, I answered her, probably has some kind of talentif you look long enough. Mr. G’s talent, I continued, wasprobably his very good paintings.

45

she seemed angry at that, showed me her back and walked upto 2 young men leaning against a collapsing wood fence.they seemed happy to see her.

I went inside to the kitchen, opened a cupboard and foundan almost full pint of vodka. I poured a ¾ vodka and¼ water. I found a Pall Mall in the sink and lit it.I knew that my 3rd or 4th marriage was over becauseof my jealousy and envy and many other horrible things.“you lack self-confidence,” she often told me. I knew thatand I was glad that she knew that. I had a bit more of mydrink then went into the yard and when she sneaked a lookat me she knew that I had passed over to the other side andthat I would not be coming back to her because of all theterrible things. I felt wonderful, like a mallard risingfrom the marsh, with the hunterstoo drunk in their boat to shoot me down for their dogsto swim out and drag back.still, she walked over and tried:

“well, I suppose you want to go now, just when things arestarting to be fun?”

I’d like to go, I said, but this party is as good as any.I can stay.

for me? she asked.

for us, I said, as finally I was no longer boredand when Mr. Geomethel came up and asked me how thingswere going I told him that I liked his party.“I thought you were a recluse?” he said.I am, I told him.

now my wife #4 or #5, she doesn’t like parties but, ofcourse, there are numerous other problems.I still get these regular invitations to Mr. Geomethel’sparties.I toss them away neither in hatred nor in joyand wife #3 or #4 phones me sometimes,weeps,

46

says that what she misses is my humor, it’s such a rarething, and I wonder about that because I can neverremember her laughingexcept with other peopleor at Mr. Geomethel’s parties.

47

a fan

Harry the Horseused to write me from jailand I’d write him back. he said that of all the writers hehad written only Ginsberg and I had written back. hepurchased my books and passed them around.that jail like anyplace else was full of writers and criticsand like the rest most of them hated me. Harry theHorse defended me. he told them that even though I couldn’twrite a decent sentence I had done time.

Harry came to see me when he got out, he came with anotherx-con who had gotten out a bit earlier. I was then livingat my girlfriend’s place and they stood in front of the fire-place looking at my girlfriend and mentally running their zippersup and down. I never asked what they had gone in for butthat gave me an idea. they didn’t stay long, they had theirold ladies with them and their old ladies wanted to seeDisneyland. they had jobs as carpenters and made more in 3days than I made in a month. we shook hands and said goodbye.

I got a letter last week. Harry the Horse was back in. hesaid it was a parole violation. I believed him.a con once told me: “nobody’s guilty in here.”

Harry wants to know where he can get my latest book. he’styping 12 hours a day in that cell. that’s one thing aboutprison: you don’t get many interruptions. I supposeGinsberg will answer him again and I will too. I’d ratherhave readers and friends in there than in Paris or heaven.now what the hell did I do with his letter?

48

Christ in his manger

it was an Irish mother and daughter fromNew Jersey.they lived in backand peeked from behind the curtainsand watched all the action in our apartmentbuilding. the girl was 28 and the mother wasin her 50s.they saw no men.they walked the streets together at noon.they were on relief of some kind.

then ownership of the apartment changedhandsand they were made managersat $2 a day.it must have been the first job foreither of them.

they had my phone number.my nights became more difficult.the phone would ring:“say, we hoid screamin’ down there!is somebody gettin’ killed?”

“no, no, it’s all right.”

“we gotta have quiet in dis building!”

as the nights went on they calledthe police several times.the police would come to the door and I wouldsend them away.

the ladies had 2 cats which theynever let outside.

49

the cats would sit in the windownumbed and crazed while theladies watched daytime TV.

each morning I was awakened asthey dragged a large tin tubdown the walk.they raked and swept and put theleaves, papers and refuse into the tubwhich they dragged along by a rope.then they watered.

most nights I went tobed about 3:00 a.m.they began their operations at7:00 a.m.

the girl used a nozzle with athin hard stream and she liked tohose down the large banana leaves.the sound was unbearable. shebelieved she was washing away the plantlice.

one memorable night the girl came overand withher mother standing behind hershe said:“say, we hoid loud laughter! we can’thave loud laughter around here! it’safta ten p.m.!”

the owners finally moved the ladies intoanother building they owned half-a-blockaway and the ladies managed both apartmentsfor the same $2 a day.it was better for me with them down there.I didn’t have to hear them complain:“de owners say you can’t pick de flowers!”“no shoppin’ carts allowed on de property!”

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or read their signs:“brake up cartons before putting in trash!”“do not step in gardens!”“no parking! cars will be hauled away!”“do not pick flowers!”but best of allthe police calls stopped.

I had to walk half-a-block topay the rent.one Jan. 15 they still had acardboard Christmas tree on display anda cardboard fireplace withcardboard logsand a little cardboardChrist in the manger.the mother had bought the daughtera 5-foot stuffed giraffe.I stood and waited for therent receipt.I got it and then the girl handed mea soiled piece of paper.

“some people don’t like us. couldjasign this petition? it’s fa’ theowners…”

and in the girl’s handwriting:“I hereby agree that Lucy and Betty aregood managers and doing a good job and Iwant them to stay.”

I signed the paper. they thanked me andI left.

there was a drought in the cityand it continued.the city put restrictions upon cosmeticwatering.the ladies didn’t come down to sweepand water any longer.

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but they were busy with the other placewhich was littered with bottles, rocks, allmanner of garbage and debris.a wild bunch ofparty-givers lived there.they were mostly unableto speak English and theyliked to listen to the music of theirnative land at more than fullvolumeso the ladies were kept busy.meanwhile, I didn’t have to stop typing at 10 p.m.any longer.I went on merrily typing my poems andstories until 3 a.m.

but one night they were back. theyknocked on the door. there was thegirl with her mother standing behindher.

“say, who planted deselittle plants out here?”

“my girlfriend planted those.”

“well, de owners sayya can’t do that!”

“why not?”

“well, we have dese seeds and we’regonna landscape in da spring!”

they had bought a few packets of seeds theyear before, stuck them in the ground, put uplittle string fences but nothing had grown.

“you’re going to landscape?”

I was in my Japanese robe and smoking a

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mangalore ganesh beedie.it was 7:30 p.m. and the first drinkwas waiting and the first poem was in thetyper.

“yeah, we got seeds. we’re waitin’ untilspring. so de owners say meantime ya can’t plantnothin’.”

“ladies, please tell the owners that I willprotect each plant until death. that is final.”

they just looked at me.

“what kinda plants are dose?” the girl asked.

“hell, I really don’t know.”

they turned and side by side theywalked away togetherin the moonlight.

it was rather cold for them to still be out on thestreet. as I watched they came to a shoppingcart halfway down the block.they pushed it off the sidewalk andleft it near the curb.then they headed easttogetherI presumeto attend to their otherresponsibilities.

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the priest

we saw the priest in the ice creamstore.he saw us and he smiled andsaid, “hi, boys!”he was eating a double-decker vanilla coneand he left while we were gettingours.

we went outside to eat ourice cream.the priest was gone.we talked as we ate.

“he’s a nice guy.”

“yeah, he spoke to us.”

“he eats ice cream.”

“he’s a real guy!”

“I wish all the priests werelike him!”

“I’ll bet he even goes to themovies.”

“sure, we’ve heard him talkabout them from thepulpit.”

“he doesn’t like most of them.”

“but he likes ice cream!”

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“that’s something.”

“sure!”

we had finished ourcones.we stood there.

“what’ll we donow?”

“let’s go visit thepriest.”

“naw!”

“o.k., then what?”

“anything…”

we finally decided to look forreturnablebottles.

the priest was a niceguybut we didn’t want to jinxoursummer.

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1810-1856

one day Robert Schumann threw himself intothe Rhine and was then committed to an asylumfor the remainder of his life.

his wife, Clara, angrily held back his musicalcompositions andrefused to permit them to be played.

one might think that she was his greatest protector andcritic.

one might think many things,I suppose,but I’m glad I’m listening to Robertinstead of to Claratonight.

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back to the machine gun

I awaken about noon and go out to get the mailin my old torn bathrobe.I’m hung overhair down in my eyesbarefootgingerly walking on the small sharp rocksin my pathstill afraid of pain behind my four-day beard.

the young housewife next door shakes a rugout of her window and sees me:“hello, Hank!”

god damn! it’s almost like being shot in the asswith a .22.

“hello,” I saygathering up my Visa Card bill, my Pennysaver coupons,a Dept. of Water and Power past-due notice,a letter from the mortgage peopleplus a demand from the Weed Abatement Departmentgiving me 30 days to clean up my act.

I mince back again over the small sharp rocksthinking, maybe I’d better write something tonight,they all seemto be closing in.

there’s only one way to handle those motherfuckers.

the night harness races will have to wait.

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love dead like a crushed fly

in many waysgood times had finally arrivedeven thoughI was still living in abombed-out apartment just off theavenue.

I had climbed my way up throughmany layers of terribleadversity.

being an uneducated manwithwild mad dreams—finallymany of them had actually cometrue (I mean, ifyou’re going to tryyou might as well fightfor the whole enchilada).

but almostat once(as such things occur)the lady I loved dearlytook offand began tofuckaround the clockwithmale and femalestrangersimbecilesand (to be fair)probably with some fairly

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decent folk.

but(as such things occur)it was withoutwarningand I was left witha pitiful dull languor ofdisbeliefanda painful mindlessclawing at myheart.

alsoas the tideturnedI broke outwith a huge boilon my backnearly the size of anapricot, well, asmall apricotbut still amonstrosity and ahorror.

I pulled the phonefrom the walllocked the doorpulled down the shades andbegan todrinkjust to pass the time ofnight, and I wentmad, probably,butin a new strange anddelicioussense.

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I found an old recording ofCareless Loveand played itover and over—the hopelessnessof that blues recordfitting exactly into mycagemy placemy owndisenchanted mood:love dead like a crushedfly.

I reached back andwandering through my recentpast, I realized that as ahuman beingI could have been muchbetter, nicer, kinder,not just to herbut also tothe grocery clerkthe corner paperboythe uninvited visitorthe ragged beggarthe tired waitressthe stray catthe sleepy bartenderand/oretc.

we keep coming upshort again andagainbut then we think thatultimately, perhaps,we are not so terribleafter all, and then wefind ourselves with

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a girlfriend whofucksaround the clockplus we geta boil nearly thesize of a smallapricot.

ah, remorse!ah, grief!

and that record ofCareless Loveplayed as loud as possibleover and over and overagain!

what a time it wasas I stumbled over the beer andwhiskey bottlesthe discarded laundrythe unread newspapersthe regrets andthe memoriesall scattered across theroom.

I finally came out of ita week later onlyto find her standingin my doorwayon a 9 a.m. Sundaymorning

her hair neatlydone,her facecarefully made up,in a fresh dress,

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smiling,as if the slatehad beenwiped clean—

she stood therejust adumbgame-playingbitch—

having tried the manyothers andfinding them (inone way or theother)insufficient

she wasback (shehoped)as I poured her abeer andtilted the Scotchinto my nearly emptyglass

all the whilehearingin my mindthe never-to-be-forgottensong aboutCareless Love.

but if my love for her hadendedsomething else was about tobegin

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as she crossed her longlegsflashed her radiantsmileand said,brightly, “well, what have youbeen doing while I wasgone?”

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it beats love

I like symphony music but the first thing on wakingshe turns on the radio and we have nonstop Brahms or Ivesor Stravinsky or Mahler or Beethoven or Mozart. She slicesthe grapefruit and boils the eggs, counting the seconds:56, 57, 58. she peels the eggs, brings everything to mein bed, including the coffee. we feel like we’re man and wife.after breakfast it’s the couch, we put our feet on the sametable and listen to more classical music. now she’s on her firstglass of scotch and her third cigarette. it’s been two nightsand two days like this. I tell her I want to go to the track. “whenwill I see you again?” I ask. she suggests that that might be upto me. I suggest next Wednesday around one p.m. shenods. I nod. we nod. Wagner plays.

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the automobiles of DeLongpre

how dare I sleep from 5 to 7:30 p.m.while probably somewheresoldiers fight to the death for a mountain or aroadand while in this very citymany housewives bend wearily over the supper dishes.

frankly, there isn’t enough to understand or dramatizein this life;that’s why great poets go sourand the average poet remains abore. poets simply make up morethan there is.

the phone rings and somebody asks meif I want to hear Ginsberg readtomorrow.

no no, I say, Ginsberg’s all right but—

would I like to hear Creeley read the next day?

no no, Creeley’s all right but—

I go back to bed and listen to the carsdriving along DeLongpre. someday I’ll write an epicpoem about listening to the cars on DeLongprefrom my bed at 7:25 p.m. will I be making upmore than there is? it’s certainly a literary conceit,those automobiles ofDeLongpre, and the wives, and those troopstaking a mountain.

death is not the problem; waiting around for itis.

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40 years ago

in our cheap hotel room nearthe Union Station, at 3 a.m., Jane and I had beendrinking cheap wine since noon. I was walking barefoot back andforth across the rug, picking up shards of broken glass(in the daylight you could see them under the skin,blue lumps working toward the heart). I felt powerful inmy torn shorts, ugly balls hanging out, myworn undershirt spotted with cigarette burns.I stood before Jane who sat in her drunkenchairand screamed at her:“I’M A GENIUS AND NOBODY KNOWS IT BUTME!”

she shook her head, sneered andsaid,“shit! you’re a fuckingasshole!”

I stalked around the room, this time picking up apiece of glass much larger than usual. I reached downand plucked it out: a lovely large chunk drippingwith my blood. I flung it away, turned and glaredat Jane:“you don’t know anything, youwhore!”

“FUCK YOU!” shescreamed back atme.

then the phone rang. I picked it up and announcedloudly, “I’M A GENIUS AND NOBODY KNOWS IT BUTME!”

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it was the desk clerk: “Mr. Chinaski, I’ve warned youagain and again, you are keeping the otherguests awake.”

“GUESTS?” I laughed back, “YOU MEAN THOSE FUCKINGWINOS?”

then Jane was at my side. she grabbed the phone andyelled, “I’M A FUCKING GENIUS TOO AND I’M THEONLY WHORE WHO KNOWS IT!”

and she hung up.

I walked over and put thechain on the door.then Jane and I pushed the sofa infront of the doorturned out the lightsand sat up in bedwaiting for them.we were well aware of thelocation of the drunktank: North Avenue 21,such a fancy soundingaddress.

we each had a chair at theside of the bed,and each chair held an ashtray,cigarettes andwine.

they arrived right ontime.“is this thedoor?”“yeah, this is413.”

one of them beat onthe door with his night

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stick:“L.A. POLICE DEPARTMENT!OPEN UP IN THERE!”

we did notopen up in there.

then they both beat on the doorwith their night sticks:“OPEN UP! OPEN UP INTHERE!”

now all the guests wereawake for sure.

“come on, open up,” one of themsaid more gently, “we just want totalk to you, nothing more.”

“nothing more,” said the otherone, “we might even join you fora little drink.”

North Avenue 21 was a terrible place,40 or 50 men slept on the cement floorand there was only the toilet into which nobody dared toexcrete.

“we know that you’re good people, we justwant to talk,”one of them said.

“yeah,” said the other one.

then we heard themwhispering.then a few minutes passedbutwe didn’t hear them walkaway.we were not sure that they

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were gone.

“holy shit,” Jane said,“do you think they’regone?”

“SHUSH!”I hissed.

we sat there in the dark.there was nothing to dobut watch the neon signsthrough the window to theeast.one was near the libraryand said urgentlyin red:JESUS SAVES.the other sign was moreinteresting,it was a large yellow birdwhich flapped its wingsseven timesand then giant letters lit upbelowadvertisingSIGNAL GASOLINE.

it was as good a lifeas we could thenafford.

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the counter revolution

waking upin a motel roomhaving slept in yourshortsaloneafter a fight withthe girlfriend.

getting uppeekingthrough thevenetian blinds

you’re inHollywoodthe east KansasCity ofnowhere

slowlyyou slip backinto yourbodythinking

I’m glad Ihad the moneyto pay forthis crap-holein order tosleep off theargument.

it beats wakingup

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hungoverin a holdingcellwith a phoneon the wallwith 3 Mexicansin there with youwhoprefer to becalledChicanos:2 of theChicanoson the floorwith youthe3rdon the telephone

he’s been talking foran hour and30 minutes

what is there tosay that takes solong?

he’s been talkingto hismother.

you need to make your ownphone call

but you’rewhiteyou’respoiled

you’llwait.

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it used to be just theBlacks whoconcentrated on yourwhite skin

now theChicanosand everyone elseof color isconcentratingon it too.

so it’snot so badright nowbeing in amotel roomshowerwhile yourcar keys andyour wallet aresafe under themattress.

you step outof the motelshowerwrap a fat whitetowelaround yourfat whitebody

step intothe other room

dripping wet

you see itnowin the dresser

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mirror

why they distrustyou

the Chicanos andthe Blacks.

just be glad, man, you’renot in the exerciseyard atSan Quentinright now.

meanwhile, at themomentyour problem iseasy and sweet:a) dump the broadb) go on trying.

meanwhileyou towel offgetdressedgetyour stufffrom under themattress

leave the key on thedresserget dressedgetout

walk downstupid staircaseto the parkinglot

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where yourauto isstill there

you and yourwhite skinget into theauto

fully paid foritstartsbacks out

travels down theboulevardfinds thefreeway

the driver thinking,yes, it’s o.k. that I amwhite—

it might be theresult of divinecircumstance orit might be the curse ofthe devil

but that’s just the way itis

and suddenlyhe thinks:white isbeautiful, I’mtired ofapologizing, I like mypaint job.

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a definition

love is a light atnight running through the fog

love is a beercapstepped on while on the wayto the bathroom

love is the lost key to your doorwhen you’re drunk

love is what happensone year in ten

love is a crushed cat

love is the old newsboy on thecorner who hasgiven it up

love is what you think the otherperson has destroyed

love is what vanished with theage of battleships

love is the phone ringing,the same voice or anothervoice but never the rightvoice

love is betrayallove is the burning of thehomeless in an alley

love is steel

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love is the cockroachlove is a mailbox

love is rain upon the roofof an old hotelin Los Angeles

love is your father in a coffin(who hated you)

love is a horse with a brokenlegtrying to standwhile 45,000 peoplewatch

love is the way we boillike the lobster

love is everything we saidit wasn’t

love is the flea you can’tfind

and love is a mosquito

love is 50 grenadiers

love is an emptybedpan

love is a riot in San Quentinlove is a madhouselove is a donkey standing in astreet of flies

love is an empty barstool

love is a film of the Hindenburgcurling to pieces

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a moment that still screams

love is Dostoyevsky at theroulette wheel

love is what crawls alongthe ground

love is your woman dancingpressed against a stranger

love is an old womanstealing a loaf ofbread

and love is a word usedtoo much andmuchtoo soon.

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Gothic and etc.

I heard from two fellows who each are going towrite a thesis on Chinaski.one is from Louisiana and the other fromsomewhere in the midwest.they both type careful letters onexpensive paper.they sound young but interestedand I answer their letters, butI don’t say too much.

I feel that I am the geekin their literary circusso even though I don’t say much(so as not to disappoint them)I do throw in a few strange linesas if my mind was properlyunattended.

some years backanother fellow mailed me his thesis.there were pages and pageswherein I was given much praise:I was the Whitman of Los Angelesand Iwas Gothic in addition to beingany number of otherstrange and sundry things.I was given credit for knowingmuch more than I doand he concluded by sayingI had written a few pieces that hadunmatched psychological insight.

this is what they finally do to youafter you’ve failed for

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the first 50 years of your lifetrying to get something going:they want to give you credit for muchmore than you everintended.

the students want it to be mysterious andimportant.

I want it to be easy.

which is what itis.

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Brando

talking aboutMarlon Brando

in bedat ten thirty in the morningI see bamboo stalks through the windowbamboo outside the window to the north

me nakedherin a pink nightgown

the ceiling is whitethe walls are white

it has stopped rainingthe sun burns in from the east

we are talking aboutMarlon Brando

at ten thirty in the morning

and the entire worldholds still

like an orange

like a huge orange

all holds still

me nakedherin a pink nightgown

we speak ofBrando

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then weforget him

and hedoesn’t think ofus atall.

we get up andeat breakfast,satisfied.

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rogue’s gallery

saw this photo ofT.S. Eliot as a young manand damnif he didn’t look just likethe fellow who used totalk and bragall night longon the swing shiftat the L.A. post officetelling me how many timeshe’d gotten laid that dayor that week andhow many womenhe’d had to turn down.

saw this photo ofEzra Poundand damnif he didn’t remind me ofthis skinny guywho I once saw catch a catin the railroad yardbang its head against a boxcarkill itskin itin a minute-and-a-halfand thenhold the wet fur pelt upadmiring it.this guy and Ez looked alike andhad the same goatee.

saw this photo ofF. Scottand he reminded me of

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the guy who told mehe used to spend his free timewatching the little boysthrough a holein the crapper wallat the Y.“if they can’t see you watchingit don’t matter,”he told me.I maintained that it didmatter, somehow.

and H.L. Mencken’s photoreminded meof the guywho for some yearshad been climbingthrough the windows of homesin our neighborhoodduring the 1930s depressionstealingradios, waffle irons, cans ofbeans and so forth.I watched the cops come get him.I was 13 years oldit was high noonand there were 4 or 5 copsand they had the handcuffson himand the sunglitteredon the cuffs.

the photo of D. H. Lawrencereminded me of thissex fiend high school kid:he got little girlshe got big girlsand then he got caughtand they took him awayonly I didn’t know

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what he was like untilafter they got him.he was my friend.we used to play handballagainst my garage doorand he seemed to me to beaboutlike anybody else.

the photo of HemingwayI couldn’t connect withanybody.no, come to think ofit, he reminded meof the old bumI gave 50 cents tothe other day.his head wasn’t quiteas roundbut he did have the same whitescraggly beard butmaybe I was only thinkingthat he looked like Ernie becauseactuallyhe had pointed red elf-likeears thatquivered as he spoke, veryfascinating—you could see the sunlightthrough themand then he took the moneyand walked away.

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media

we sat around her plushpad andshe asked me,“how come you never gotany media attention?you’ve got all this talent.how come you wasted allthose years asa common laborer?”

and I just sat therewith that rich and educatedlady—I couldn’t answer herright away—but I thought,what could you do?knock on doors?what could you say tothem then?I’d often failed evento land a jobas a dishwasher.

so I told her,“it never occurredto me one way or theother.”

“it should have,”she said. “it wouldhave saved you a lifetimeof agony.”

soon there was a

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knock on the door, andsoon another, andthey started arriving—all of them famous:a famous cartoonist, afamous columnist, afamous actor…

soon they were all there,especially in thepatio where food wasbeing served.

I’m lucky to be here,I thought, I could neverafford a place likethis.

I told the lady thatI wished to retireearlyand I took afifth of importedwhiskey to the bedroom,had a few drinksin the darkthen got undressedcrawled into her bedswitched onthe cable TVand watched itand waited.

after the lady wentto work the nextmorningI got into my carand drove slowly downout of thoseHollywood Hillsknowing I’d never

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go there again.

I went backto townto my apartmentwith the busted frontwindowand I went insidelocked the doorgot a tallcan of beerfrom the refrigeratoropened ithad a hitsitting there at10:30 a.m.on thatderelict couch and

it was one of thebest beersI evertasted.

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I was wrong

I bet the wrong horse.

my girl is on the rag andmy beard is turning white.

tonight I walked across theroom and ripped the nail offmy little toe. a thick mahoganychair leg did it.

I laughed then with the temple-burnersand the polishers ofprose.

I bet the wrong horse.

the hawk got flushed down thetoilet.

the pimp scratched his fleas.

the cook dropped in celery andcarrots and potatoes anda bone for thedog.

I bet the wrong horse.

I’d rather bein Jamaicathan to be sitting here tonighttyping fawns into hardfact.

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2

an apology is no more than aweak excuseso I’m not going to apologizebecause this poem is so shortand has no titleas I sit drinking steamed coffee fromSwitzerlandwhile listening to that oldcrybabyPeter IlichTchaikovsky.

up, down and all around

I sometimes get edgywonder where I’m at,miss a step or two, feellost.

everybody I know seemstallermore intelligentkinderthan I amandof coursenot asugly.

but that mood neverlastsvery long.

I take a goodlook around,a straighthard look aroundand thenI knowbetter

but justfor awhile.

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the main course

Jesus Christ, he tells me, Rita and I have split,just general attrition and general unhappiness.anyhow, I’ve been eating out and it’s like havingthe same bad dream over and over again.

whatcha mean? I ask.

I mean, he tells me, I keep going to different restaurantsbut it’s the same everywhere,the same dim lights and empty tables.I go in, you know, but no matter where I gothe same man gets up from his newspaper andcomes to my table…

hands you a menu? I say.

yes, and I am pleased for him: I am bringing himmoney, I am bringing him trade…

he might fail otherwise?

I don’t know, he continues. anyhow, I order a beer,soup, salad, shrimp and fries.I make a small joke, hand him back the menu.he walks off to the kitchen.outside, it rains; inside, music playson the radio.

then? I ask.

the soup arrives. not too bad. I read the paper,spoon the soupand the paper says things like:WOMAN STEALS BABY FROM MOTHER FOR3 MONTHS.

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HORSE MEAT FROM AUSTRALIA BEING SERVEDAT NATIONWIDE CHAIN OF FAST-FOODRESTAURANTS.MAN KILLS ESTRANGED WIFE, 3 CHILDREN ANDSTRANGER WHO HAPPENED TO BEREADING THE GAS METER.

then? I ask.

then the salad comes. it’s not bad.

the only good salad, I say, I haven’teaten yet.

I finish the salad. then comes themain course. fair. somewhat dry andtasteless.

you eat it? I ask.

yeah, he says, only I need help. I call him overagain. another beer, please.

then?

he brings it thengoes and sits by the cash register.he waits.I am finished eating.I nod.he comes back and lays the bill onthe table.he goes back to the register.he sits down.

he is not important, I say.why do you think abouthim? you’re letting him rob you of yourpeace.

I leave him a tip anyhow, he says.

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and then?

then I get up.pay.leave.

well, you’ve eaten.

yes. and when I go to another cafeand then to cafe after cafe,this same man gets up from hisnewspaper, moves to my table and takesmy order!

sometimes things never change, I suggest.sometimes things stay the same.

he’ll always be waiting there in the dim light, he says,waiting for me!pretending to be someone he’s not!

but he doesn’t love or hate you, Isay, he doesn’t even know your name.

but it’s like having the same nightmare, he says,over and over again!when is it going to stop?

when things get dark, I say, even after we awake,sometimes things are worse than ever before.

I gotta begin eating in, hesays.

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it’s all music

the girl in the fish market stands with her back tome.she’s dressed in a brown smock and has long goldenhair.I’m down at the docks and there are fish everywhere.many of the fish are large and seem to be almostalive as theireyes look up at me.

a man steps out of an ice locker holding ahuge silver fish by its open mouth asthe girl in the fish market turns and looks at me.I ask her to cut me a swordfish steak.

driving back to town the fish is on the seatnext to mewrapped in pink paper that is only a little lighterthan the color of the pink fish.

I drive back to my houseup the driveway andpark the car in the garage.

I walk into the housewhere the woman I live with is talkingon the telephone.she spends her days talkingon the telephoneand it’s best for both of us that she does.

I take the fish out of the pink paper and putit carefully in the refrigerator.then I go upstairs to where I can be myselfand listen to the Massin B Minor byJohann Sebastian Bach.

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my cat, the writer

as I sit at thismachinemy cat Ting sits behindmeon the back of mychair.

nowas I typehesteps on the edge of an opendrawerand then out on thedesk itself.

nowhis nose is dangerously closeto the flying keysas he watches metype.

thenhe backs offgoesover and sticks his nose intoacoffee cup.

nowhe’s backhis head brushing the edgeof this unfinishedpoem.ashe

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sticks his paw down into theguts of themachine.

Ihit a key andheleaps away.

thenhe just sits and once again watches metype.

I’ve moved my wine glass andbottleto the other side ofthemachine.

the radio plays badpianomusic.

Ting just sits and continues to watchmetype.

do you think he wants to beawriter?or was he one in a pastlife?

Idislike cute catpoemsbut nowI’ve written one.

suddenlythere’s a fly in

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hereand Ting watches its everymove.

it’s 1:45 a.m. now andI’msleepy.

listen, relax, I’m sureyou’ve readworsepoems thanthis

and I’ve writtenworsetoo.

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one for the road

It’s not sad to think of Socratestaking hemlock;in those days it was a simple choice:in or out.in our time, within this confusedsuperstructure,I can see him as just anotherold drunk at the baron a Saturday afternoon,far more interesting than mostof coursebut just as helpless as heconfronted the compoundedwisdom of thecenturies.he’d probably just go out andget laid the best hecouldand like the rest of ustry to survive thecomingnight.

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room 22

I’ve always liked old hotels with stairs thatsqueakold hotels run by indifferent managers who enjoyrenting you,for example,room 22—

opening the battered window forthe first timethe fumes from the avenue belowrush up deadly asyou stand at the windowand watch the traffic signal change:red yellow greengreen yellow red.

the second floor is best:in case of fireonly two broken legsand another chance at life’sgame.

old hotels like old womenbecome bettermore mellowmore humanbecause there’s nothing elseleft for them to do.

it’s the same in St. Louis,Kansas City or L.A.

sitting down on the sagging mattressyou think of the many peoplewho have lived in that room

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who are now probably dead, and you wonderhow many people actually died therein that room.

but there’s a charm, a definitecharm thereas you sit on the bedthinking, you’ve got a whole weekahead of youand almost ten dollars left over.that can be as safe as you willever get.

soon there will be a knock on the door,usually a toothless old guywaving a near-empty bottle ofcheap wine.

“come in,” you’ll say.

and he will be all righthe will talk better sense thanyour father or the college professorsbut, of course, they wouldn’t agreebecause he’s without a job ormoney.

I like my new roomI like the dripping faucet,I like the toilet down the hallI like my old guestand soon there’s another knock andthere’s another old guyand then another knocka womannot too oldshe brings some vodka.

sooneverybody is talkingsmoking cigarettes

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they come in and go out as theyuse the bathroomdown the hall.

somebody turns on your radioand soon everybody is talking LOUD.it’s nice in room22.

somebody pukes in mysink.

a fist fight starts between two70-year-old men.Istop it.

I look up and see the hotelmanagershe’s been drinking too, holding acigarette in her mouthshe tells us to quiet down,the long grey ash about to dropand fall into the front of her gown.

then laterto awaken alonein a roomful of empty bottles and silentdried pukediscarded food and candy wrappersscattered on the floor andrug.

you get updressgo down the squeaking stairsbuy a newspapercome back uptake off your shoesclimb onto the bedand read the

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Help Wanted sectionlooking for someonewho needs ashipping clerkstockboybusboydishwasher.

those old hotelsthey give a man a chanceas long as he can enjoya few good nights inroom 22.

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she caught it on the fly

the entertainer smokes 50 dollar cigarsand goes out on stage and singsand the women throw panties at him.some of the panties come out of theirpurses and some of them actually comeoff their bodies.he sings love songs and that’s whatthey want, and he wiggles a bit andhe sweats.I’d hardly compare him to Sinatrabut he seems an all right sort—he generates a certain electricity, and ifhe was my gardener or my mechanicI’d probably like him.

I know an airline stewardesswho told me: “he’s a pig. he tooka stewardess into the crapper whilewe were in flight and he fucked her.she got the clap. all my feelingfor him has left me.”

there you go: love gone wrong again.this is where we live and it keepshappening.

I’ve never had the clap but if I werebombarded with all those panties Iprobably would have had it severaltimes.

and I don’t think it has hurthis singing. and that’s what they’repaying for.

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a drink to that

we were on LaBrea Ave. and I asked her,“want to see the house I lived in for15 years when I was a boy?”“sure,” she said.I drove over to Longwood Ave. and weparked across the street.there it was 50 years laterit was still therethe house of horrorsthe house of a thousand beatingsthe house of brutality and unhappiness.“show me where your bedroom was,”she said.we walked across the lawnthe lawn I had mowed and watered750 times.we walked up the neighbor’s driveway.“there it is,” I told her, “there is thewindow I crawled out of at night, andI think that’s the same bush I slid over.Christ, let’s get out of here!”we got back into the car and drove off.I had been the victim of no love fromeither parent. and I had been the victimof much more than that. and the luck hadheld bad for a long long timethereafter.

“you didn’t want to see that house again,did you?” she asked.“it was my idea,” I said. “I’m sorry.”“Baby,” she said, “I’m sorry too.”“it’s over,” I said, “some of it isover.”

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when we got back to my place andopened the doorthe angels jumped out of the wastebasketsand ran across the worn, brownruglight and luck were bouncing from thewalls asshe went to the bathroomwhile I kicked back andpopped a bottle of HavemeyerBernkastel Riesling.

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sit and endure

well, first Mae West diedand then George Raft,and Eddie G. Robinson’sbeen gonea long time,and Bogart and Gableand Grable,and Laurel andHardyand the Marx Brothers,all those Saturdayafternoonsat the moviesas a boyare gone nowand I lookaround this roomand it looks back at meand then out throughthe window.time hangs helplessfrom the doorknobas a goldpaperweightof an owllooks up at me(an old man now)who must sit and endurethese many emptySaturdayafternoons.

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out of the money

there is this superstar jockey who has taken asudden interest in the written word and one nightat my place he asked me,“listen, isn’t there something I can read?” I told him,“well, there’s this fellow Céline, he wrote a book calledJourney to the End of the Night.”

a couple of nights laterhe phoned.“listen, I can’t find that book in any of the stores”;so I told him where he might findCéline.I met him at the track one day and asked,“did you find that book yet?”and he said, “yeah.”each time I saw him at the track after thatI asked,“you read that book yet?”“no,” he’d answer.

the last time he told me, “I couldn’t get into it. it wastoo slow.”“what?” I said.“yeah,” he said. “I gave the book to my wife.”“good,” I said. “well?”“she said it was depressing.”

I played out the card and then drove home, thinking,he can’t be talking about Céline, not the Céline I readthat rainy winter nightso many years agoafter a long day at the Acme Electric Co. spentpacking light fixturesinto wooden crates.reading Céline for the first time there in my

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roomI laughed out loud at the crazy truthbounced on the springsturned and beat the mattress with myfist, thinking, nobody can write likethis, this is the beginning and the middleand the end of itall!

I still see that jockey at the tracknow and then, he’s agood sort, butit doesn’t quite mean the same thingto me.we just talk about thehorses and let it goat that.

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4 cops

dogs walk the wallsas the submarine sinks quickly to thebottom.

I sit in a coffee shopwith 32 cardboard facesmost of them blank.

4 very fine copssit at a tablewatching me.

I guessI don’t look sogood to them.

why didn’t we getthose boys killedin some war?their mothers would onlyhave cried forten minutes.

I’ve been packed(in here) forseven decades: nofront, no back, no top,no bottom.my parents wanted meto succeed in some curiousprofessionthat only theycould understand.

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my life unfolds in front of melike a dirty napkin.I’ll never come back to this coffee shopagain.

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my girlfriend says it’s all so easy

“she designs the sets for Broadway plays and edits artfilms. he plays the flamenco guitar, he’s reallyfamous and has his hands insured for 200thousand dollars.”

“he makes customized hot-tubs and when wintercomes he works at the best ski resorts. she makes lovelybaskets and sells them at craft fairs. she’sreally very talented.”

“he takes the photographs while she interviewscelebrities. they built their beachfront home themselveswith stones they found along the shore.”

“he grows grass in Hawaii and smuggles it into L.A.in surfboards. she writes for a famous pop musicmagazine.”

“she restores pleasure boats and hemanages a rock group and arranges all their tours.they have a brilliant child.”

“she only works a couple of months a year asan income tax consultant and he buys andsells houses. he’ll buy a house for500 thousand and he’ll sell it for 600 thousand4 months later.”

“he’ll only take odd jobs, he makes enough in3 or 4 days to lay around for a month or more.she does wood carving, she’s really good.”

“his father died and now he runs the lumbercompany. he used to be gay and analcoholic. she’s so tiny, and half his

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size. they finally got married.”

“they live in Mexico and South America.they know how to live off the land.they make jewelry and sell it not only tothe tourists but also to the natives. he neverlearned to speak English. he doesn’t have to.he just sits there and looks at you withthose eyes! oh, my god!”

“he goes to Spain every year and livesin a castle. he has an English accent andthe women are crazy about him.”

jesus christ, I think of all the factories andthe warehouses where I worked,the park benches on which I slept, thejails I’ve been in and then to hear about allthese others!

I could have made wood carvings or lounged inart school or traveled to Crete orstretched skins in Peru or I could havewept at the feet of rich old ladies orconstructed handmade crossbows for thehunting of boar!

it’s all so easyall you’ve got to dois to beclever and bright

if I hadn’t been retardedI could have beenlike them:

the handy and successful magic peopleeverywhere!

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American Literature II

personal is best. I know this professor,we were drinking beer together and hesaid, “I don’t see how you can be so personalin your writing, isn’t it embarrassing?”

he’s wrong, it’s all personal.history is personal. pulling a shade upin the morning is personal. drinking beer is. theabstract is. the objective is. the waterbugis, and synapse is.

and nothing is more personal than walking downa stairway alonethinking about nothing. I often like tothink about nothing for hours.

this professor, he’d simply taught too longwhile I’d been a night watchman and acircus hand. there was really nothing I couldtell him but I tried: “drink your beer,”I told him, “and tell me about yourwife.”

he would only drink his beer soI told him about my wife.

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heartache

I was living in this gay hotel,he told me.it was getting to me.I began fucking those guys.I even fell in love with a drag queen.well, the other morning I found adildo in the trash can, it was stillcoated with vaseline. I just hadda getout of Frisco so I flew down to San Diego.I’m in this bar and I meet this younggirl, marvelous body. we drink awhileand she says she’ll suck my cock (she sucksso she won’t get pregnant).we go to her place and I find out thereare 3 guys in the front room. I ask herwho they are. and she says, oh, theyare my lovers. and I say, wait a minute,you mean to tell me you suck those 3cocks too? she says yes and I get out ofthere.I go to do a painting of an attorney. hepromised me $300 and when I finished hesaid, I’ll give you $25.what the hell, I said, that doesn’t evencover the costs of paints and paper, letalone my soul.

$25, he says.

I ripped up the painting andwalked out.now I don’t know what to do.maybe I’ll go back toNew York.where do you think I ought

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to go?

Portland, I said.

Portland! he said, furious. Don’tfuck with my head! where’d you getthat hanging plant? what are youdoing with a cat? and who painted yourbathroom that awfulcolor?

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I cause some remarkable creativity

she burned holes in the couch with hercigarettesdrank almost a 5th of scotch by 2 p.m.and turned the radio upvery loudto the symphony.she got very intellectualand her idea of intellectualwas to disagree with everythingsaid by me,alsoshe wasn’t very good in bedso I wearied of it all and told her it wasover.

now she phones me continually.long distance.she reads me poems she’s written.

there’s one about a flyeven a fly can feel pain,says the poem.

there’s another about how she killed ajune bug. there’s no law against killing ajune bug,says the poem.

then she phones and tells me that she hassubmitted a story to a magazineand in it she exposesme.

do you want me to read you the story?she asks.

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no, it’s all right, I say, andhang up.

there’s another lady I know who wrote a long unpleasantstoryabout how she killed a roach with herbare foot.

I should introduce them.

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the cosmic joke

men and women finally break.men and womendeliberately abandon theirloved ones in madhousessedated orelectrifieduntil they die.

cats kill cats at3 a.m. in the morningchewing off the frontlegs and opening thethroatleaving stiffened furand still formsfor any collector ofgarbage and lifepast gone.

so many wish to be kindand understandingso many wish to act educatedand knowingso many use the wordloveas if they meantit.

and too many believe itwhen they hearit.

our chances are negatedby our very desire tobe kind.

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we’ve got to raise taxesso we can feed andclothe and amuseall thosein madhousesand elsewherewho believed in lovewhen there was solittlethere.

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the death of the snowman

the only time it ever snowed inLos Angeleswe made a little snowman in Neal’sfront yard, the only snowmanany of us had everseen: raisins for eyes,carrot for nose,wine cork in mouthlike a cigar.that was at 8 a.m. in themorning.by the time nooncame aroundall the snow had meltedfrom the roofs and thelawnsbut our snowman was stillthereonly he was gettingsmaller.Neal decided that we shouldput him in his parents’icebox so he would stopmeltingso we did.

the next day the snowmanwas still in the iceboxthere on the back porchand he was only a littlesmaller.he reminded us of the miraclethat had happened.there were four of us:

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Neal, me, Eddie and Gene.we reached in and touched himand admired him.we knew it would probablynever snow again in LosAngeles.

it was 3 or 4 days afterthatone afternoonwe were out in frontwhen Nealyelled, “THEY’VE GOT OURSNOWMAN!”

we didn’t know those guys,they weren’t even from ourschool.one of them had the snowmanand was running aroundand around inNeal’s backyardlike he didn’t knowwhere to go with it;there was a high fenceback there.there was the guy with thesnowmanand three other guysall about our age.we ran back and startedswinging at them.the guy with the snowmandropped it and startedswinging back.they were good fightersbut we knew we were rightand we were madderand so they started losingand getting bloody

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noses.even though they cussedbetter than we did,we backed them off.three of the guys startedrunningbut the biggest of themthe fourth guyreached downgrabbed the head off ourlittle snowman and stuck itinto his mouth.“KILL HIM!” Neal yelled.we went for himbut he ran offup the drivewayhe had really long legsand we couldn’t catchhim.

we walked back to whatwas left of our snowman.we’d stepped all over himduring the fight.there wasn’t much left.small dirty white chunks.“no use saving this,”Neal said.and he started crushingand stamping the snowmaninto the ground.soon there was just abit of wet earth.

“how’d those pricksfind out aboutour snowman?” Neal asked.

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we were sitting around whenNeal’s mother came home.she went in the house for a while,then she came out onthe back porch.

“what happened to thesnowman?” she asked.

“nuthin’,” Neal answered.

“don’t talk to me in thattone of voice!”she said.

Neal just sat there.

“did you hear what I said,Neal?”

“yeah…”

“there you go again!you come into the housethis minute!”

Neal got up and walkedinto the house.Eddie, Gene and megot upand we walked out to thestreetand Gene went off to wherehe livedand Eddie went to wherehe livedand I went to whereI livedand we didn’t say

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anything,we didn’t even saygoodbye.we knew it wouldnever snow in Los Angelesagain.

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shut out

they were putting the horses in the gate and Iwas rushing to get my bet down and there were twomen ahead of me in the line.the first, a well-dressed fellow, seemed to beleaning up against the window and dozing.“JESUS CHRIST,” I yelled “SLEEP AT HOME!”

“LOOK AT HIM,” I said to the man in front ofme, “HE’S TRYING TO PICK UP HIS TICKETS WITH ONE HAND!”

“yes, he’s very slow,” said the man in frontof me.

“I’VE SEEN SOME JERK-OFFS IN MY DAY!” I said loudly,“BUT THIS BABY BEATS THEM ALL!”

the man at the window slowly picked up his tickets,turned around and said to me, “buddy, I’ve onlygot one arm.”

“sorry, sir,” I said. then as an afterthoughtI said, “listen, if you’veonly got one arm you ought to make your bets wayahead of time!”

he walked off and the bell rangsending them out of the gate and there wasnothing to do then but go back to the bar.

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the machine gunner

some have compared my typewriter to a machine gun,even I have,but sometimes I run out of bulletsand I cover it (the gun)and walk into the bedroomfall on the bedand think,god almighty, why did I ever quit my jobas a stockboy at Sears Roebuck?they had such nice little smocks and gave me aten percent discount on purchases.

there’s no response from the hinterlandsto my immortal stories, the editors sit on them likepillows.the only thing that arrives are the poetsthey must have a rotating schedule.“come on, Chinaski, let’s drink and talk!you’re lonely, Chinaski, you’re gettingparanoid…”“no, listen,” I say, “believe me, there’s a different gang hereevery night. even a crew with a tape recorderlast night. it was awful!”“ah, I bet you loved it! have anotherdrink!”

they even sleep here and in the morning I tell themthey must go. they don’t understand.they tell me I can live by my name alone; they tell me Idon’t realize who I now am. I know who Iam.

after they leave, it’s the mailbox.no replies from the magazines. only personal lettersthat want answering: a letter from Israel, a letter from

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New York, 2 letters from San Diego, one from New Orleansand one from Normal, Illinois. between the poetsand the personal letters I am immortal,but who’s tending the store?where’s the machine gun?I’ve fought a lifetime to be able to writeand now I’m running a correspondence course and anall-night bar.

I’ve got to get an old woman to guard that doorand answer the phone:“I’m sorry but Mr. Chinaski is indisposed today.would you care to leave amessage?”

of course, they’ll call me a son-of-a-bitch.well, I am.or they’re making me intoone.

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2 deaths

you told me many years ago(long before Stravinsky diedtoday)that you wanted to learneverythingabout engines and buildingsand war and womenand citiesand the history ofManand I told youit’s tiresomedon’t botherwhat counts is not what weknowbut what we don’tknow.

you wanted so desperately to prove that you couldknow what was not alreadyknown.

and when I saw you in yourcasket I had no idea thatStravinsky would also dietodayand that I would sit hereand write about both of youtonight.

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schoolyards of forever

the schoolyard was a horror show: the bullies, thefreaksthe beatings up against the wire fenceour schoolmates watchingglad that they were not the victim;we were beaten well and goodtime after timeand afterwards werefollowedtaunted all the way home where oftenmore beatings awaited us.

in the schoolyard the bullies ruled well,and in the restrooms andat the water fountains theyowned and disowned us at willbut in our own way we held strongnever begged for mercywe took it straight onsilentlywe were toughened by that horrora horror that would later serve us in good steadand then strangelyas we grew stronger and bolderthe bullies gradually began to back off.

grammar schooljr. highhigh schoolwe grew up like odd neglected plantsgathering nourishment where we couldblossoming in timeand later when the bullies tried to befriend uswe turned them away.

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then collegewhere under a new regimethe bullies melted almost entirely awaywe became more and they became much less.

but there were new bullies nowthe professorswho had to be taught the hard lessons we’d learnedwe glowed madlyit was grand and easythe coeds dismayed at our gambleand our nervebut we looked right through themto the larger fight waiting out there.

then when we arrived out thereit was back up against the fencenew bullies once againdeeply entrenched by societybosses and the likewho kept us in our place for decades to comeso we had to begin all over againin the streetand in small rooms of madnessrooms that were always dim at noonit lasted and lasted for years like thatbut our former training enabled us to endureand after what seemed likean eternitywe finally found the tunnel at the end of the light.

it was a small enough victoryno songs of braggadocio becausewe knew we had won very little from very little,and that we had fought so hard to be freejust for the simple sweetness of it.

but even now we still can see the grade school janitorwith his broomand sleeping face;we can still see the little girls with their curls

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their hair so carefully brushed and shiningin their freshly starched dresses;

see the faces of the teachersfat folded forlorn;

hear the bell at recess;see the grass and the baseball diamond;see the volleyball court and its white net;feel the sun always up and shining therespilling down on us like the juice of a giant tangerine.

and we did not soon forgetHerbie Ashcroftour principal tormentorhis fists as hard as rocksas we crouched trapped against the steel fenceas we heard the sounds of automobiles passing but not stoppingand as the world went about doing what it doeswe asked for no mercyand we returned the next day and the next and the nextto our classesthe little girls looking so calm and secureas they sat upright in their seatsin that room of blackboards and chalkwhile we hung on grimly to our stubborn disdainfor all the horror and all the strifeand waited for something betterto come along and comfort usin that never-to-be-forgottengrammar school world.

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beaujolais jadot

the dogs of Belgium feel badon certain winter afternoonsasthe sweep of things goesthis way or that.nothing, nobody is ever spared.

no matter, tragedycontinually reminds us of randomchance:great airliners crash into unseenmountain ranges;old ladies set themselveson firesmoking lonely cigarettes inforgotten rooming houses;small wars continue, and brutal rapes,and there is always accidental murderas the dogs of Belgium feel badoncertain winter afternoons:their eyes show it, theytwitch and shiver—and there’s no place to go, there’snever a place to go, it’s meant to bethat way.sitting here like this,wondering about it all, withbeaujolais jadotspilled across the desk,all I can thinkof arethe dogs of Belgium,and Christ, they must be feelingawful bad to get inside my head

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like this.

maybe it doesn’t mean anythingat all, that would bebest.across from where I sitis another roomandsoon I will go in there andI will stretch out on the bedand sleep a dreamless sleepandthus I will escapethose dogs of Belgiumwho would continually remind me ofthe lost and forsakenlives of somany.

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bar chatter

Arnold looked down into his drink andsaid, “when you finally realize thatthere is no oneperfect woman, then you can waiton death in a settled fashion insteadof being tricked into the usual frenzycaused by the ladies.”

Mike looked down into his drink andanswered, “but, to establishsanity you must first endure a series ofinsanities.”

“the insanities,” said Arnold. “I rememberall their names…”

“I remember,” said Mike, “that they allwere similar: intestines, elbows, skulls,ears, kneecaps, veins, hair, eyes, noses,feet, toes and so forth…”

“I remember their complaints best,” saidArnold. “none of them seemed to likeme.”

“they liked you,” Harry answered, “but theywere trying to mold you intotheir vision…”

“let’s not talk about women,” Arnold said.“it doesn’t lead anywhere.”

“all right then,” said Mike, “let’s trythis one: how long do you think wehave before a nuclear war wipes us

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out?”

“god damn, man,” said Arnold, “fromwomen to nuclear war!”

“hey,” said Mike, “look at that one whojust walked in! I’ll bet her intestinesare in great shape!”

they watched her walk to her bar stool andsit down.

then they began to talkabout professional football.they both liked the game, it was sensible,brutal and braveand talking about itthey began to feel less worseand much muchbetter

and as they talkedthe woman with the great intestinesblew a perfect smoke ringabout the shape and size of ababoon’s asshole.

she stuck her finger through itas Harold and Arnold orderedanother round.they didn’t have much timeleft now atall.

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punched-out

I remember best coming out of that factory into thenightnone of us saying muchglad to get outbut needing the job—getting into our old carsone could hear the grinding of the startersthe sudden roar and explosions asthe worn engines fired up once more—as we backed wearilyout of the parking lotto pull awayleaving the factory back there—each of us to a different place—some to a wife and children—others to empty rented rooms or tosmall crowded apartments:as for meI never knew if my woman would be there ornotor how drunk she would beif she was home—but for each of usthe factory waited back thereour timecards punched and neatlyracked.

for me somehowthe best time was that momentdriving from the factory to where I livedstopping at the signalslooking at the crowdssuspendedbetween a place I didn’t want to beand a place I didn’t want to go

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—I was caught between my two unhappy livesbut so were most of the others therenot only from that warehousein that citybut in the worldentire:we had no chanceyet still we all managed to continue andendure.

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counterpoint

he noticed that every time heexpressed an opinion shecontradicted him.

he decided to ignore it.that is, he decided not to mention it toher.

but each time he expressed an opinion(as the days and weeks went by)she quickly contradicted him.

he thought, it’s probably her way ofasserting her intelligence.she probably does it toeveryone.

he decided to keep his opinions to himselfand to speak out lessor not at allif possible.

but one dayhe slipped up andexpressed an opinion andshe contradicted him again.

so he decided to mention it to her.he said, “do you realize that every timeI express an opinion youcontradict me?”

“why, that’s not true!” shereplied.

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3 pairs of panties

Sweden is a lousy placeParis is a lousy place

the executioner cut off thewrong heads

when you leftyou left behind3 pairs of pantiesand I’m too fat towear them

London is a lousy place

Los Angeles is a lousy placenow:dank clicking beastdead fish memory stalkingme,ambulances masquerading as flower petals:

what was wrong was notunderstoodand what was right didn’tlast.

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this drunk

this drunk in the next apartmenthe looks at baseball, football, and spy dramas onTV,he brings home 2 or 3 women a yearI hear him through the thin walls:“come on, baby, let me put this god-damned thingin there!”

he also falls out of bed about 4 a.m. every morningthen he falls out of bed about 5 a.m.and sometimes again at 6 a.m.

he’s worse than a church chime.

when we had that earthquake 2 years agoit was 6 a.m.and I thought he had fallen out of bed againbut when the walls kept shakingI got out of bed along with everybody elseand went outside and smoked cigarettesand waited for the world to end.

when I saw the drunk at noonI asked him how he liked the earthquake andhe said, “what earthquake?”

one day the drunk went outand the landlord went in there andstarted cleaning his place.

empty beer cans and bottles cameflying out, some by themselvesothers in paper sacks.

it was an afternoon in October

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and I stood outside and watched the cans andbottles bounce on thesidewalk

and then stiff and yellowhere came a Christmas tree.

I thought you might like to know about him,he’s a colorful fellow,this drunk next door.

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Casablanca

Bogie smoked 4 packs of cigarettesa dayand was in a few good movies.

he made them good by beingin them.

some men have this undeniablepresence and somewomen too.

Bogie had it.

you listened when he spoke.

which is more than my women do.

all my women say the same thingto me: “listen, I’ve heardall that before.”

“heard it where?”

“from you.”

Bogie had the delivery, it nevervaried.sometimes my voice changessometimes I sound like a callowyouthalthough I don’t feel likeone.

I rehearse my voice,I practice, I

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put a steel edge on my vocalinflection:

“listen, you whore, I’ve had itwith you!”

“oh, go to sleep,” they say turningover in the bed. “Ineed my rest.”

Bogie with his 4 packs of smokes,he had an instinct, a presence, evenhis clothing and his demeanor werelike a gentle smirk.

and with the telling lift of aneyebrow and those hollowcheekshe looked like heknew everything.

throughout all my relationships I’ve triedto be like that.

I mean, aren’t we all influenced bysomebody?

I wonderif he had livedwhat he would look likenow:

smoking a pipein a house on a hillsitting on a front porchstaring off atnothing over therooftopsof a small town inArkansas

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a truly terrible andbeautiful end…

“this is Bogart Week on TV,”I tell my woman.“just think, a Bogie movieeach night forseven nights!

“this is trash night,”she says, “have youtaken the trash outyet?”

I cup my handslight a cigaretteinhalelook at hernarrow my eyeswhilegently exhaling smokefrom my mouth and mynose:

“you take it.”

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the saddest words I ever heard

I was a substitute carrierat the P.O.and the supervisorwas out to break mesending me out on thetoughest routes in the cityduring the dayand then assigning me tonight pick-up runs.

in betweenI drank and fought withmy shack job.

one afternoon coming in so tiredI could hardlywalkthere was Erniethe assistant soupat the desk.he wasn’t as bad asthe supervisorand he looked up andsaw melit a cigarettesmiled sympathetically andsaid, “I know it’stough…but for dumb guyslike you and methis kind of shit isthe only jobavailable.”

then he leaned forward andbegan on some paper

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work.

I walked to my route casethought about thatthought about that some moredropped my mail sackwith a sighandsat down.

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the light

he won’t die. 95 years old. he walks down the hill,the very steep hill, to fetch his own groceries. thenhe walks back with the big bag, leaning heavily on hiscane.

old Charlie. he won’t let anybodyhelp him.

his is the biggest house on the hill, twelve rooms.must be worth $500,000.00.

his wife, also 95, is in a nursing home.he walks over to see her a few times a week.

“she looks good but she doesn’t know who I am.”

Charlie’s children don’t come around.

“they’re waiting for me to die. I’ll live onto spite them!”

he used to watch television downstairs with hiswife. now he watches upstairs in another room.

“can’t go in that room. it reminds me of her.”

that’s all there is.he lives on bacon and cornflakes. he looks good.he’s 6-foot-two, thin, arrow-straight.

the mailman tells me, “you know that old mannext door? he’s got a sharp mind.”

old Charlie. 95. he won’t die.

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everybody he knew is dead now except his wifewho doesn’t know who he is.

for a man backed into a corner he’s majestic,and when death comes it better come humblyfor this one.

I see the light shining in his upstairs room eachnight.

it’s the brightest metaphor for courage I’ve seen forsome decades.

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the closing of the bottomless bar

the idea that moral outrage onlycan be felt bythe gifted and the noble and theintelligent andthe sensitive and thepowerfulthat is the biggest joke ofall.they raided the nudie bar last night,had a Supreme Court order in their back pocket,werebacked by the highest court in the landand they swept the girls off the bartopslike dead flieslike dirty napkins,all those poor lovelies screamingin panictheir voluptuous rears twisted in surprise,they swept them off and awayhalf-dressed into vans and automobilesto be booked, fingerprinted, photographedand jailed. such awaste. what a waste of grade-agoods. speak about indecencythe cops were the most indecent things therethat night. a poor girl can’t make an honestbuck anymore. all they were doing was offering ahorny evening to a few lonely men. I’ve just got tobelieve those Supreme Court boysdon’t care about anything real and justcan’t get it upanymore.listen, girls, we’ll find a way, we’ll bail youout, we’ll think of something.

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the human body ain’t no crime,anyway, not those bodiesof yours.

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fame of a sort

I dream of beingfamous.I dream of walkingdown the streetsof London and Paris.I dream of sittingin sidewalk cafesdrinking fine wineand taking a taxiback to the besthotel whereI dream of meetingbeautiful ladiesin the hall.

I’d like to seethe city of my birth,Andernach, Germany,explore itthen fly on toMoscow to check outtheir rapid transit systemso I’ll have somethingto tell the mayorof Los Angeleswhen I get back homewhere I willhave dinner with himand his familywhilefeeling his wife’slegsunder the table.

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never look

that’s the secret: don’t look.

“you never look directly at people,” a girlfriendused to say to me.I had good reason, I didn’t want to see what was actuallythere, I felt better without thatreality.

I could give hundreds of examples of what I meanbut I’ll just describe afew:say, if I boarded a jet and I saw the pilot’suntroubled and unfocused facethen it would be a very uneasy flight for meindeed.or say, at a harness race, if I looked into the dead eyesof the driver who was to guide the horse of mychoicethen I’d know that I could neverbet that horse.or say, if by chance on TVI see a close-up of the face of thewinner of a beauty contestI am almost alwayshorrified.finally, I know it’s a terrible thing to say butwhen I see hundreds of human faces gathered at a sportingevent I become dizzy with nausea anddisbelief.

I appear to be misplaced among the multitudes, I don’tbelong.

I am best alone watching my three cats, they arefor me

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pure examples of reallife.

I canlookwithoutfearatthem.

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now the professors

now the professors come with their little 6-packs ofbeer and sit on my couch and talkLiterature.

“Chinaski,” the professors tell me, “you getthis profound sense of total Realism into yourwork.”

“uh,” I say,“huh.”

it was not Moyamensing Prisonit was notnot being in the War—any one of them—it was not the railroad track gangsthe slaughterhousesit was not the whores and Literature andPoesy whichkilled me, it was not thelandladiesit was not the fine ladies who never fucked me because I was abum, it was not all the bad and cheapwine, it wasnothing—I was neither Villon getting his ass kicked out of Parisforevernor was I Crane jumping into a boat propellor and/or ashark’s mouth.

it was notsitting behind dark ripped shadespulled down forweeksmonthsyears

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afraid of the landlady’s footstep—death was nothing next to that—it wasbeing more and more startled by the world andthe world’s people.it was the cosmicjoke, a dirtyone atthat.

nothing has changed; it doesn’t matter thatnow the professors come with their little 6-packs ofbeer. and sometimes I am lucky—onceone came along while I had theAsian flu.he had a little 6-packsmileduttered the magicword:“Chinaski?”

“yeh,” I said, “got the Asian flu, don’t gettoo close.”

“ooh, what’ll I do with thebeer?”

“I’ll takeit.”

I took the beer while he stood there under my rentedporch lightautographing his latestexpensivehardboundprivately printedpoems.

the poems I knewabout—I didn’t have to readthem. I just put the book in with all the others like

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that. I had a bookcase full ofthem.

the beer?

it could have beenbetter.

I drank itanyhow.

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the hatchet job

a) he sat across from me.b) he said: “I will destroy Ginsberg.”c) I thought: this man is crazy.d) he continued: “I will write a critical essay and destroy Ginsbergforever; he has gotten away with his nonsense for too long.”e) I thought: this man is very unhappy and envious.f) he went on: “I will bury him.”g) I asked: “do you think he’s worse than you or me?”h) he countered: “yes, he is, he has a vast and insidious influence,and he’s a fucking phoney.”i) I told him: “let’s talk about something else.”j) he asked: “like what?”k) I pleaded: “like anything else.”l) he went on: “I hate that son-of-a-bitch, I am going to do a serviceto the literary world, I’ve made up my mind!”m) I asked: “you’re going to expose him, eh?”n) he said: “all the way.”o) well, he wrote the article.p) and it was published in a critical journal.q) and it was quite long.r) and I read it while taking a shit.s) then I finished it (the shit).t) continued to read while taking a bath.u) got out, dried off, went to bed.

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v) the best thing to dow) when a minor talent attacks a major talentx) as was the case in this mattery) is take a napz) and zzzzzzz.

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shack jobs

spiders and dogs, dogs and spiders, the cross, the double-cross,the triple-cross, spiders and dogs, I look back on the nightsand come up with very little,remembering some of the women I lived with and realizing they hadnothing against me, just nothing for me—or for others—those ladieshad managed to vaporize their existence, and what wasleft weshared;dogs and spiders, the double-cross, the triple-cross and always thehard carelessness for both me and forthemselvesdogs and spiderstheir high-heeled shoes lonely in the corner, emptychalices, andas we slept our drunken sleepI toogavenothingjustmy standard response: playing ittough.there was another better waybut it was not for us.thusly, spiders and dogs, the double triple quadruplecross: our hearts not willing tolove.

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ground zero

the consensus is that this is a difficult time,perhaps the most difficult of times:large groups of people in citiesall over the world areprotesting that they’d rather not betreated like shit.

but whoever’s in controlwill not listen.

the suggestion is that, of course, it’sonly one power fighting another powerand the real power, of course, is in the handsof the few who run the nationsand their need is to protect those many thingsthat belong to them.

it is conceivable that these few rulerswill escapewhen the final eruption begins;they will escape to their safe havenswhere they will watchthe eruption to its finish,and then after a reasonable waitthey will returnagain andwill begin buildinga new ridiculous and grosslyunfair future.

which, to me, is not a veryhappy thoughtas I crack open a can of beeron a hotJuly night.

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my telephone

the telephone has not been kind of late,of late there have been more and more callsfrom people who want to come over and talkfrom people who are depressedfrom people who are lonelyfrom people who just don’t know what to dowith their time;I’m no snob, I try to help, try to suggest something thatmight be of assistancebut there have been more callsmore and more callsand what the callers don’t realize is thatI too haveproblemsand even when I don’tit’snecessary for mesometimesjust to be alone and quiet anddoing nothing.so the other dayafter many days of listening to depressed and lonely peoplewanting me to assuage their grief,I was lying thereenjoying looking at the ceilingwhen the phone rangand I picked it up and said,“listen, whatever your problem is or whatever it is you want,I can’t help you.”after a moment of silencewhoever it was hung upand I felt like a man who had escaped.I napped then, perhaps an hour, when the phone rangagain and I picked it up:“whatever your problem is

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I can’t help you!”

“is this Mr. Chinaski?”

“yes.”

“this is Helen at your dentist’soffice to remind youthat you have an appointment at3:30 tomorrowafternoon.”

I told her I’d bethere for her.

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exactly right

the strays keep arriving: now we have 5cats and they are smart, spontaneous, self-absorbed,naturally poised and awesomelybeautiful.

one of the finest things about cats isthat when you’re feeling down, very down,if you just look at a cat at rest,at the way they sit or lie and wait,it’s a grand lesson in perseveringandif you watch 5 cats at once that’s 5times better.

no matter the extra demands they makeno matter the heavy sacks of foodno matter the dozens of cans of tunafrom the supermarket: it’s all just fuel for theiramazing dignity and theiraffirmation of a vitallifewe humans canonly envy andadmire fromafar.

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3

they say thatnothing is wasted:either thatorit all is.

progress

this electric typer doesn’t make much noiseas I continue past midnight whilethe dog in the yard north barks tothe sound;but the people there don’t seem to mindand for this I’m thankful.from years pastI remember the room on Kingsley Ave. wherethe woman downstairs would beat with abroom handleon the ceilingwhile I typedon my ancient manual typeras the woman upstairswould stamp angrily on thefloor.

those ladies were adistraction butI just sucked itupand beat the keys evenharder.

the worst one, though,was the guy on Oxford Dr.below mehe had a powerfulvoice and he wouldscream:“JESUS CHRIST, KNOCKOFF THAT FUCKINGTHING!”he would, at times,give me pause

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before I continuedbut strangely enoughhe never complained whenmy girlfriend and I had one ofour argumentswhich could be heardhalf-a-blockaway.

each new place I lived inhad its criticsand I was usually given aten p.m. curfew bythe landlord ormanagerafter whichI was privileged to lay backand listen to the babble from theirradios.

so tonightas I listen to the barking of thisgood wooly dognext doorI am almost apologetic that I am intrudingupon his simplelife;but bark awaylittle friend because,as they say,good literatureis almost alwaysdisturbing.

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Carter

Carter was the biggest guy inhigh school, fat, aggressiveand incomprehensibly stupid;you could feel the stupidityoozing out of him and gettinginto your eyes, mouth, brain.and since they seated usalphabetically in class and he wasCarter and I was ChinaskiI sat behind him day after daystaring at his thick roundneckat his senseless ears andbig dumb head.he was always raising hishand in class,smiling at the teacher,making a little joke, but unfortunatelyhe always asked the wrongquestions.

I sat behind Carterday after dayclass after classtrying not to hate himfor his reputationfor being stupidfor being the buttof every jokebut wishing various thingsfor him:like drowning inthe bathtub ormoving toCedar City, Texas.

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I knew in my heart, however, that hecouldn’t helpwhat he was, he was justa big spacewhere nothing grewand that didn’t make himguilty of anythingand I knew in my heart thatbecause of how I felt about himthere must be somethingmean and smallabout me and so finallyI hung around with himat recessI stood up for him on the playgroundand when he would turn in class andmake some dulljokeI’d grin at himas if we were friendsas if he had really saidsomething clever.

I was not always sitting behind Carter.he was not in all my classes.

I was never a good studentbut strangelyin the classes withCarterI got mostly “C’s” andsometimes a rare “B”but in my other classesI usually got a “D” and nowand thenan “F.”

it got so bad thatnear the end of my seniorterm

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a notice was sentto my parentsthat I wouldn’t haveenough credits tograduate.

my mother, a woman witha psychotic fear of failure,came to that school andwept and screamed untilthey told her, “all right,Mrs. Chinaski, we’ll let himgraduate.”

what they meant, of course,was that they weregetting ridof meand her.

during the graduation ceremonyyou know who I stood behind whilewaiting for my diploma.

as they called his namehe turned to meand made a little jokebut this timeI didn’t grin backI let my expression show himexactlyhow I felt; that falsefriendship must finally cometo a sad end.

and as he moved onto the stageIgraduated.

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two cats asleep downstairs anddeath itself no problem

you have to wait patiently some nightsand not be embittered by the rub of Humanity.you have to wait patiently some nightspreferably alonenot thinking about too much of anythingalone with the typerthe cigarthe electric light bulb.you have to wait patiently some nightsfor the right momentto climb out of the trough.there’s something splendid about this ritual ascurious and easy thoughts arrive(right now I’m remembering that thelicense plate is hanging loose by one screwfrom the bumper of my car).you have to wait patiently some nightsnot because of this or that or some other thingbut because it’s the sensible thing to do.you have to wait patiently some nightsnot because killers prowl the streetsnot because of the tax man andnot because you miss the dance of life.suddenly I decideright now thattomorrow I’ll add another screw to that loose license platebecause that’s what keeps it and my world from fallingapart:small desperate actslike this enable oneto continue fighting the good fight afterwaiting patiently throughthe darkest night.

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the pro

up in San Franciscoan editor said to me, “Hank, you bring asuitcase when you come to read. you know,when Diane comes to read she just carries alittle traveling bag, that’s all sheneeds.”

well, Diane was a looker, all she needed weresome clean white panties and her miniskirt.me, I didn’t look sogood.

I said, “well, hell, I’m used to being onthe bum, I always drag asuitcase.”

“no matter,” he said, “you oughta learn fromDiane, she’s a pro.”I knew about Diane, she was already famous at24, she got up and read poems aboutbringing down the government and stillshe got agovernment grantevery year. she was beautiful, tough,slinky and had long blonde hair down to her ass.as she wiggled and wailed aboutfascist Amerikaevery man in the audience gothotandsome of the womentoo.

and in between readings she had a

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jobteachingat a university.

now,that editor isdead andDiane has vanished.maybe she’sdead too.

I met her justonce;fortunatelyfor mewe were on the samecard.two things I liked about her:1) at dinner before thereadingshe matched me drink fordrink2) and her hair kept fallinginto her food.

“better go easy, Diane, or I’ll have toread for both ofus.”

she looked at me. “like shit,” shesaid, “like shit youwill.”

“I can wail,” I said, “and I canwiggle. I’d love to read for you!”

“what you’d love, Chinaski,” shesaid, “is to fuckme.”

we both read well that night, I

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think.and that was over two decadesagoand the government’s stillhere and I amtooandI remember Diane with specialfondnesseven thought she didn’t want to lay herfavors on a man almost twice herage.

I rememberher little traveling bagher tough talkher humorher perseveranceher gutsher energytalk about ashow!

she really didn’t need thatminiskirt andchange of whitepanties.they weren’t necessary.

she was the realpoetry.

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pain like a black-and-whitesnapshot

the dead dogs of yesterday (it’s twilight in Missouri)the dead dogs of nowhere (all those empty, forsaken lives)the dead dogs of tomorrow (and the purple sunrise)the dead dogs of Hades (my love with a brokenheart)the dead dogs of our love and the dead vanilla dogs with ice creameyes (and please don’t forget the shy dog in the northyard).

dogs.

the aviator dogs the president dogs the dogs thatcrawl the wallpaper and the dogs that bring an early taste ofNovember;the dogs that burn down the town and the dogs whowhimper and creep while promise sings like a lostsoul.

I was a young dog of 23 and you a beautiful womanof 35loving me burning me leaving memy guts bleeding in the avenue while the swancircled on the pond and watched.

now I’m an old man and you’ve been dead for 30 years.

and often I’m alone.

I still walk a frozen pathoften getting lost and trapped and fooled again

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but you were the first lovelybitchto take that special bite out of mein that specialway.

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Life, Death, Love, Art

he had long blonde hairshoulder lengthsmoked a pipeclaimed he looked just likeLord Byron.he was both intellectual and handsomeand all the girls loved himfor a while.

he always had a new girlon the stringsome young fawning thing.

I knew him at a timewhen things weregoing very badly for mein every possible way.but he liked having me around.he found something amusingabout mysuicidal and shiftlessways.

he made a good livingpoking around in theeditorial field.he always seemed comfortable,always in control.he lived in an expensivearty place withantique furniture andbeautiful rugsand alwayssome new girlat his feet

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on one of those rugslisteningwith admirationas he spoke.

I’ll admitI tried to arousesome interest in myselfin his girlsbut they hardly ever evenglancedin my direction.of course,when I would examine myselflaterin my bathroom mirrorI’d notice, say,a shoe untied,a couple of buttons missingfrom my ragged shirt.I’d notice my wornshoes, yellowteeth, facial scars,etc.

of course,I didn’t expectany of his girlsto go to bed with me.I just wanted a look, asmile,some conversation.butI never got even that much.it was as if I wasn’tin the roomat all.and this didn’t just happenwith one of hisgirls,it happened with all

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of his girls.

so I began to studyhimto find outwhat he hadthat I lacked.

first, I saw he was veryscrubbed,spotless.his clothing wasfresh, clean.his shoesin the latest styleand brand new.he sat relaxedbut erectnever slouchingand he didn’tgulp his drinks

he sippedhis drinks.but it must have beenhis conversation thatwon them over.I noticed that healways spokewith his beautiful accent andwith high seriousness ofLife, Death, Love, Art.

he went onand onnever at a loss for wordstalking aboutLife, Death, Love, Art.and he always referredin his soft tonesto the same dear departed:

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ShelleyKeatsByronOscar WildeGeorge Bernard ShawChopinGeorge SandH. G. WellsDebussySocratesSantayanaand allthe other people whodidn’tinterest me.

one night I decided toget out of there andleave him alonewith his girls.

six months or morewent by.I was sittingin my cheesebox roomcloser to suicide thansalvation whenmy landladyknocked on the door:“somebody wants youon the telephone. how’dthey getthis number?”“hell, Clara,” I toldher, “I don’t even know thisnumber.”

I went down andpicked up the phone.it was Lord Byron himself.he was drunk.

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“hey, Lord,” I asked,“how’d ya get mynumber?”

“never mind…do comequickly…I’ve beendrinking for weeks…Ithink I’m going to killmyself! hurry, please!”

I got his new addressjumped into my12-year-old carand drove onover.

he had evidentlymoved downfrom his fancy placein the hills.he was just offFountain Ave.near theHollywood PoliceStation.

I parked andgot out.

I found him ina small shackin the rearbehind a brokenscreen door.there wasn’t evena bedin there.

he was lying on acot.and he was

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out cold.

I shook him:“hey, Byron,wake up!”

he stirred.a lock of blond hairfell down across hisforehead:“oh, Henry, hello.”

“got anything todrink?” I asked.

“yes, there is somescotch. dopour us some…”

I found the fifthalmost empty,poured two drinks.

he said, “just putmineon the table.”

I drank mine andpoured myselfanother.

“Henry,” he asked,“have you ever thought ofsuicide?”

“yeah.”

just thenthe screen door openedand a new one(to me)

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blew in:

longred-brown hairlong slender legsclearhazel eyes.

“get out of here,”she told me.

“what do you mean?”I asked.

“I mean, you’ve donethisto him!I know your rotten type!”

“listen, I just gothere!” I told her.

she looked down athim: “Nelson, are youall right?”

“Sybil,” he said.

Sybil went to the cotsaton the edge of itbentover himher long hairfalling across his face.“Nelson, darling, are youall right?”

I stared ather legsher buttocks

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her breasts.

I finished mydrink.

I left.

I droveright by theHollywood PoliceStation

and that was20 yearsago and

I haven’t seeneither of themsince.

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sometimes when you get the bluesthere’s a reason

it only takes 6 or 8 inept political leadersor 8 or 10 artsy-fartsy writers, composers and painters toset the natural course of human progressback50 yearsor more.which may not seem like much to youbut it’s over half your lifetimeduring which time you’re not going to be able tohear, see, read or feel thatnecessary gift of great art whichotherwise you could have experienced.which may not seem tragic to youbut sometimes, perhaps, when you’re not feeling sogood atnight or in the morning or atnoon,maybe what you feel that’s lacking iswhat should be there foryoubut is not.and I don’t mean a blonde insheer pantyhose,I’m talking about what gnaws at your gutseven when she’sthere.

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the Word

they rang at 10:25 a.m.Sunday morning.

I put on my dead father’sbathrobe with one sleevemissingandopened thedoor to

a woman in dark glasses anda man.

“how are you feeling today?” heasked.

“not well.”

he shoved some religious materialstoward me.

“please. I don’t wantthose.”

“we are all made by the sameCreator,” he said.

“I am the Creator,” I answeredand closed thedoor.

then they walked down to theother drunk’s place in theback and pressed hisbell.

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he told them toget the fuck awayfor Christ’s saketo leave himalone.

God’s not much of a curefor hangovers.

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my nudie dancer

some years agoI knew this nudie dancer, it was agentle friendship, she was oneI’d just rather look at.yes, we did it once or twice butshe had her own lifeher hobby was paintingshe painted badly and shehad a series of boyfriendsall just alike:dull fellows who wore their shirtsopenandworegold neck chainsdressed sharpand moved as if they werewalking on eggs.they all hadlittle buttockslike grapefruit halvesbut they never lasted or maybeshe neverlasted.

“I can talk to you,” she toldme as if that was somethingmarvelous.what she meant was that Iseemed to belistening.

I liked to watch hernervously walking about herapartment

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lighting cigarettescursingchanging into differentoutfits3 or 4 times anight.

I found her funnyshe made melaugh,not so much laugh asmade mesmile or grin.

she was into crank,had no luck with hermen atallwhile I was being shot down continuallyby hard numbersfrom the street

so

we had this little clubwhere we exchanged conversation aboutour continuing lovefailures.

about the ladies,my complaint was mostly directed againstmyself: I believed in too muchtoo earlyand when realityarrived I couldn’tstand it.

her complaint was almost theopposite: “I knew the guywas dumb…and when a dumbguy can’t get it up

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anymore then there’s nota lot left!”

“sex,” I told her, “what’s all thistalk about sex? is that all thereis?”

she said, “everythinghelps.”

it was the first time thenthat I said it toher: “human relationships justnever work!”

she acted as if she hadn’theard.she said, “you’ve never seenme dance,have you?”

“no.”

“why don’t you come watch meat worktomorrow night?”

I told her, “well, allright.”

the next night I was seated ata tableshe was standing at the barsaw mecame on over andsat down across fromme, she lookedgoodvery good.

I thought, if I let myself

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I could fall in love nowand be in terrible troublelater.

“you know,” she said, “I’mserious, I think I like youmore than any man I’ve knownin a long time.I guess it’s because you’re notalways hitting on me.you’re kind,I can feelit.”

“do you always talk like thatbefore you strip?”

“always,” she laughed,finishing her drink. “now I’vegot to go.”

she left.there were a couple of openingacts.there wasn’t a bandjust a loudspeaker blaringas the young girlsdanced theirdismal tortureuntil they finallywere naked under the softpurple lights.

it wasvery discouragingas if their essenceafter all thatmeant nothing at all.

some time went bythen she came

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out.

it was differentyou could see it right awayshe had the body languageshe knew how to move andshewas good.

she looked all around theclub.

the barkeep waved his barrag

I waved a papernapkin

and

she got intoit

dancingshakingclowning

singing andlaughing

then she staredstraight at melikenever before.

her eyes werelaughing too.

you could hear theguys in the club gettingexcited

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soundingoffgroaningjokingthrowing money on thestage.

gradually,finally, shedisrobed.

then she stoodstraight, herarms held out.

that beautiful body wasas if nailedto a cross;then the purple lightswent outand she was gone behinda curtain.

a little while laterwhen she came to mytableI felt very special.

I ordered a coupleof drinks.

“did you like me?”she asked.

“all the way.”

“maybe we can bebetter friends now?”

“I’d like that,” Itold her.

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we drank for maybe 15minuteswhen this fat guywalked up.he must have weighed 300pounds and was well over6 feet tall.he stood there amomentthen he looked down ather.

“let’s go, Isabel,”he said.

“o.k., Daddy.” she started topick up herpurse.

“you don’t have togo with this guy,” Itold her.

“who’s this jerk?” the fatguy asked. “should Ihandle him?”

“no, Tony, he’s all right, don’t…please…he’s an oldfriend.”

she looked frightened,stood up.

“let’s go, baby,” said fatboy.

I grabbed a beer bottle andstood up.“I’LL KICK YOURASS, WHEATCAKE!”

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Wheatcake snapped his fingersandtwo guys came up behindme.

first I felt myself being lifted andrushed through space

it was afloating, helplesssensation

the second thing I felt wasthe unforgiving surface of a charmingcobblestone alley.

my last feeling was one of havingbeen fucked over, again.

I got upwent to the parking lotfound my cargot input the key into theignitionturned it onhit the gasit starteditstalled

andas I kicked it overagain theblack Cadillac camebyjust likein a moviefat boy driving,Isabellaughing and

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lighting acigarette.

I realized then and therethatalmost anything that mightoccur upon planetearthwould have very little to do withwhat I reallywantedormight want

so I decided not to see heragainas if that would solveanything at all for methis timethe next timeorthe time after thenext.

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I can’t see anything

I can’t see anything butmutilated twilight.I would like to venture forwardwith hopenot only for human survivalbut also for the survival of humanthought and music and art and painting and even ourhistory,but you know it’s like a tip I got once frommy bookie:don’t bet on it.I see it all nowturning to burnt baconcripped van goghs begging pennies fromcrippled bankers,everything going like thateveryone begging and driftingdown the twisted landscapeinto the valleysthe condemnedaudience wailing:

you know,all thisis what we deserve.

the dark is empty;most of our heroes have beenwrong.

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not exactly the sun

it’s a yellow light.I mean walking down the streetit’s a yellow lighttheresoundless.

picking up the telephoneor peeling an orangeit’s therethe same yellow light.

shoot an arrow through itand it’s still therestill yellow.

fight with your womanat nightit moves across the roomstands between youstill yellow—it’s got aheadfat armsobese bodywide legsno eyes.

I saw it at my mother’s funeralI saw it last night in the gardenI saw it sliding among the bottles atthe supermarketI don’t know what it is.it sits inside of me nowand yet it looks out at mefrom the walls.

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we can’t nail this one to the crosswe can’t ask it to leavewe’ll have to live with itlike we live with dresser drawersdogscatslandlords.

if it comes to see youdon’t try to phone me.I’m unlistednow.

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the doomed lady poet

I met her down at the beach after a reading.it was the morning after andwhile my woman slept I got into my walkingshorts and went down the back steps and therewas the sand and the water and then I heard hervoice and went over and she introduced meto her man—a very pretty young fellow she had justmarried.she was not a handsome woman and so much of thegood poetry she wrote was about her bad luckwith men.“were you at the reading?” I asked her.“no,” she said, “we didn’t go.”“I’m not feeling well this morning,” I said.“you have great legs,” she said.“thanks,” I answered, “I’ve got to go now.”I walked off along the shore.

her husband—not long after—ran off witha man and she had more angry poems to write.

the next time I saw her was in a cafeoverlooking the water. “isn’t that Sandra?”my woman asked me.“no wonder she’s been staringat us,” I replied.

I walked over to her table.“hello,” I said, “I thought it might be you.”she introduced me to the two men at her table,horrible land creatures—long hair stickingout all over them.

when I got back to my table I told my woman,“let’s get out of here.”

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I left the money and the tip for our drinksand we drove off down the coastlooking for another place to eat.

I don’t know why I’m always trying to getaway from her. I think she’s too willing tosuffer. I see her sitting like atarget waiting for the slings and arrows.

we found a restaurant further south on the coastand while we were looking at the menuover the first drinkmy woman asked me,“are you in love with her?”

I nodded toward a waitress carrying aDungeness crab.

“see that crab?”“yes.”“I’d be much happier withit.”“and how about me?

would you be happier with me?”the ocean was blue and greenmore blue than green and there was onlyone boat on it and I couldn’t seeChina.

“I thought we discussed that last night,”I replied.

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the eternal horseplayers

not much originality there:they stand in long lines between racesmaking their little betshoping that the impossible dreamcomes true for them.

not much chance:run-down shoes,shirt tails hanging,they lose all day

to go back to rooming-housesthinking of all the playsthey could have made.

but could have is no good,it has to be nowand they don’t knowhow to deal with now, they’llnever know while

opening an evening newspaperchecking the next day’sentries.

thank god and the devilhope seldom abandons any of us;when that happensit’s canceror heart attackor playing checkers withyour old ladyas she talks aboutwhat they talk about.

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first day, first job

it was high school all over again atUnion Pacific Railroad.as I walked up the gravel path toward the foremanthey were waiting, 3 of them standing in my way.(Jesus Christ, it never stops. the same thingover and over again. will itnever stop?)

they waited as I walked toward the foreman,blocking my way.

“new guy, huh?” said the smallest one as hegrinned, reached down, grabbed his lowerparts.

“what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”I asked.

“hey, man,” said the next guy, “you looking fortrouble?”

numero uno, the leader, stood betweenthem with his slick black hair, his arms athis sides, his fingers with manyrings waiting to rip yourface and eyes.numero uno was handsome in a dumb, vicious way.he was nearly a grown man.he had probably already screwed a woman.his black hair and black shoes shone in the morningsun.

“hey, prick,” he said, “fuckoff!”

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I looked at him, then at the other two andthought, well, I guess I am going to have to try tokill them all.

I closed my eyes andswung a right hook which caughtnumero uno on thenose. the other two backedoff. as I followedI heard the foremanyell: “HEY, CUT THAT SHITOUT!”

the leader held his hand to hisnose, crimson blossoming between hisfingers as he turnedto the foreman: “the son-of-abitch hit me!”

the foreman walked over and made aspeech about how they didn’t tolerate thatsort of thing at Union PacificRailroad. we were one big family, we were abrotherhood andI was lucky he didn’t let me goright then and therebuthe’d give me one more chancebutany more crap like that and I wasfinished.

“PUNCH IN!” he screamed.

we did, and were divided into differentwork gangs.

nobody in my gang talked to mewhich was fine.

an hour or so

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laterat the water fountainnumero unowasstanding there.

“I’m gonna get you, man!” hehissed.

I walked back to mywork station more thana little worried.

butnothing happenedthat day orthe nextorin the weeks thatfollowed.

thenI got lucky in a crapgame, quit and took a busto New Orleans.

I had finally learned thatthe guys who talk toughhardly everare.

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long sad story

Mama Norman’s was just south ofdowntown L.A., a little east ofBroadway, probably gone to warehousesand parking lots now, andI’d come downstairs in the morning andMama and old Jeff would be sittingin the kitchen and she’d say,“Hank, feed the chickens and I’llpour you a drink,” and I’d get somefeed out of the sack, put it in a potand go out into the cold sunshine yardand I’d throw the yellow stuffto the chickens like a god.they’d come wildly to life from thespray of my hands and then I’dgo back inside and sit down and thebottle would be sitting therein the soft sunlightand old Jeff would pour, his hand like thebark of an oak tree, telling long sad stories,and the oven would be on,a little gassy, and we’d sit therewith our drinks, and soondown mine would go, good whiskeymaking that kitchen as dramatic asany play, and there I was a young man sittingwith these old people and drinkingand they treated me as an equalby god by godthe chickens were full of grainand old Jeff would roll a cigaretteand Mama Norman would say something,and then one more drink all around, thesunshine coming in like redemptionthrough the curtains

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and then I’d go back upstairsto my roomwhich was away from the sun andsmelled of centuries of damp,but there was my port wine,the tears of grapes, and the whore from thesouth room knocking on my doorand she was naked and roundand white and terribleas she told me about the night before,about her men, and then about her sons,I looked like one of them, she said,and the cabinet radio playedand she danced all naked and fat andwhite and terrible, insane really, and the onlything to do was to get more wine, drink morewine and wait formorning and the chickens onceagain.

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the theory of the leisure class

the best thing about old women isthat all they want from you arethe simple things.

I used to feed the chickens formy landlady, Mrs. McCarthy

and afterwardsin the breakfast nook she’dpour mehalf-a-glass ofwhiskey.

we’d sit there as the morning sun came inthrough the curtains.

Mrs. McCarthy asked meonce,“you’re a young man,why don’t you get ajob?”

I nodded toward thechicken coop andsaid, “I gotone.”

“Lord, boy,” she said,“you’re just no damnedgood!”

I smiled.unexpected praise such as thathelpedkeep megoing.

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divorce

maybe when I was seven oreightI remember the daywe decided to playhouse.we got a big blankettook it out tothe backyardpropped it up with sticksand we all crawledunder there.

we each had a wife.Frank got Stella.Gene got June.and I gotCharlene.Charlene had the bluesteyesthey just burnedblueand she was quietin a red dress.

I had crappy parents andwasn’t used to being close toanybody andwe all huddledtogetherunder that blanket.Charlene and I put ourarms around eachother.we didn’t kiss or anythingwe just held each

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otherand I had never feltso good.then it ended: one ofthe guys got mad aboutsomething and kicked theblanket off.

it was Gene.“let’s get the hell ourof here,” he said.

Charlene got up andstood thereand I stood as closeto her as I couldand her blue eyeslooked right through me.“goodbye,” I said toher asshe just looked at me withthose clear blue eyes.

for some daysI talked to Frank andGene about howwonderful Charlenewas.

it was some timelater that Gene got meoff to oneside.

“listen,” he said,“don’t tell anybodybut I’m going to tell yousomething aboutCharlene.”

“what is it?”

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Gene leaned real closeand whispered,“she wears rubberpanties!”

“really!”

“really!”

after that I stayed away fromCharlene.I mean I’d see herout in front of her housenow and then as Iwalked by.

but I wouldn’t look at her.I’d walk by as ifshe wasn’t there.

those blue eyes wereterrible, a god-damnedlie.

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no wonder

Tony phoned and told me thatJan had left him but that he was all right;it helped him he said to think about other great menlike D. H. Lawrencepissed off with life in general but stillmilking his cow;or to think aboutT. Dreiser with his masses of copiousnotespainfully constructing his novels which then madethe very walls applaud;or I think about Van Gogh, Tony continued, a madmanwho continued to make great paintings as thevillage children threw rocks at hiswindow;or, there was Harry Crosby and his mistressin that fancy hotel room, dying together, swallowed bythe Black Sun;or, take Tchaikovsky, that homo, marrying afemale opera singer and then standing in a freezingriver hoping to catch pneumonia while she went mad;or Dos Passos, after all those left-wing books,putting on a suit and a necktie and voting Republican;or that homo Lorca, shot dead in the road, supposedlyfor his politics but really because the mayor of thattown thought his wife had the hots for the poet;or that other homo Crane, jumping over the rail of the boatand into the propellor because while drunk he hadpromised to marry some woman;or Dostoevsky crucified on the roulette wheel withChrist on his mind;or Hemingway, getting his ass kicked by Callaghan(but Hem was correct in maintaining that F.Scott couldn’t write);or sometimes, Tony continued, I remember that guy

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with syphilis who went mad and just kept rowing incircles on some lake—a Frenchman—anyhow, hewrote great short stories…

listen, I asked, you gonna be allright?

sure, sure, he answered, just thought I’d phone, goodnight.

and he hung upand I hung up, thinking JesusChrist no wonder Jan lefthim.

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macho hell

listen, I now forgive all the women who havelived with me and then left mein order to find someone else to fuck,to snort coke with, to drink with or maybe just totalk to.

I realize now that often I am a dullfellow and also by nature not much good atexpressing affection, and in additionmost of the time we simply weren’t interestedin the same thing and/or things.

but I must tell you now that back then it wasdifficult for me to forgive or understand;I remember many nights of machohelljust looking at the wallsor an unmade bedor yesterday’s newspaper on the floor; theminutes strangled inside my head;and there was always female detritus scattered about:clothes on the bed, shoes on the floor, lipstick onthe dresser, a hairbrush in the bathroom…

and then there was my precious ego, never being ableto understand how any of you could prefersomeone else to me.there were many nights spent walking to and fro acrossthe room, refusing to accept, doubled over, grabbingmy gut with both hands, growling, “shit, shit,shit…”

and trying to forget, going to cheap bars,looking, seldom finding, and when finding playinga role I really didn’t like, just hoping for

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some kind of cheap vengeanceinstead of accepting what should have been acceptedgracefully.

I understand thatI never would have met any of youif you hadn’t left someone else for me or been discardedby someone else—so here’s to the good nights along with all the bad:at our best we experienced as much joy as anyoneand I thank all of you for giving me yourbest;you live in my heart and if there’s a heavensomewheresomeday you’ll all be thereasthe great white shark continues to circle endlesslyin captivitywith stunned eyes, with dumb stunnedeyes.

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you know who’s best

it’s warm herethere’s a roof overhead and a radioand some good white wine.

it’s raining and I lost at the tracktoday.

yesterday I won $680.today I lost $750.

Madelinewe fight and we fight.

but tomorrow I’m going to win sopick your panties up off hisfloorand come back tome.

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he died April 9, 1553

catching the fluand reading Rabelais.

as the cat snores,as the toiletdown the hallhisses,my eyes burn.

I put Rabelais down:this is whatwriters doto each other.

for him, Isubstitutea tab ofvitamin C.

if we could only swallowdeathlike that (I think wecan).or if death could onlyswallow uslike that (I think itdoes).

life is not all thatwe think itis, it’s only what weimagine it tobe and for uswhat we imaginebecomes

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mostly so.

I imagine myselfrid of thisflu

I see myself parading thesidewalks along with the kingsand princesof this world…

meanwhile, the cat, like most otherthings, pushes tooclose;I move himgently away, thinking, Rabelaisyou were amighty mighty interestingfellow.

as I stretch outto sleepthe ceiling watches meand waits.

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pick-up

the rivers the dogs won’t swim,we cross.

the women other men don’t want,we love.

the horse that wears the bandage,we bet.

sit me down at a bar with 3 women:one, faintly obnoxious;one, generally stupid;and the third,a killer:

the killer will leave her stooland come sit next to me.

the gods always make sure.the gods watch over me.they fix me upreal good.

“hi, honey,” she asks, “how yadoin’?”

“what’re ya drinkin’?” I ask.

she states her drink.I order her a drink and another forme.

outside, it’s much nicer: cars arecrashing; buildings burn;future suicides

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whistle through their teeth whilewalking west or east or south ornorth.

“whatcha got on your mind?” sheasks.

“I hope the Dodgers lose,” I tellher, then Iget up, go to the men’s room, sneak out,then slip through the rearexit.

there’s an alley out there.I walk westwhistling through myteeth.

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it’s all right

small cheap rooms where you walkdown the hall to thebathroom can seem romantic toa young writer.even the rejection slips areamusing because you are sure thatyou areone of the best.

but while sitting therelooking across the roomat the portable typerwaiting for you on the tableyou are reallyin a senseinsane

as you wait forone more night to arrive to sit andtype Immortal Words—but now youjust sit and think about iton your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door youalmostexpect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being younghelps get you throughmany senseless and terribledays.

being olddoestoo.

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one of those crazy nights

we were sitting at a table; I’d known him when he’dlived in Munich working at something that we were mutuallyinterested in; now he’d come down from Montana, still working atsomething that we were both more or less mutually interestedin.we’d been in a bar maybe 3 or 4 hours. he had a nose like thebeak of a hawk and he was 6-foot-4 and wore a dumb cowboyhat.we were drinking scotch with beer chasers when he leanedforward (it was a crowded Saturday night) and whispered: “you takethe guys at the bar and I’ll take the guys at the other table; we’ll cleanthis place out, o.k.?”I narrowed my eyes, looked around: “no, you take the guys at the barand I’ll take the guys at the other table.”“o.k.,” he said, “now?”“wait,” I said, “let’s have another drinkfirst.”“o.k.,” he said, “I wanna see the waitress again anyway. did you seeherboobs?”“yeah.”“man, what TITS!”

I motioned the girl over for another round; she came with herloaded tray.it happened fast: he reached up and grabbed one of herbreasts.such a god-damned SCREAM you never heard along with the crash ofa droppedtrayand then it looked like the whole bar was coming after us!

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“FOLLOW ME, COWBOY!” I yelledand I ran up the stairway to the crappers.just to the west of the crappers there was a windowwhere the slanted roof almost reached the ground.I climbed out onto the roof with the cowboy just behind and thenwe jumped and hit the good earth and really started running.we leaped over a vine-covered fence into a yard where a huge dogwith redeyes barked with great verve. one of us kicked him in the balls andthen we were out of there andfound ourselves walking along a quiet tree-lined street with nobodyabout.

I had sprained my right ankle, each step I took was fire fromhell and the cowboy said, “we ought to go back there and kick someass!”

“you really think we should?”

“why not?”

“I can give you many good reasons,” I said.

“you’re right,” he said, “let’s go back to your place.”

“sure,” I said, “but one morething…”

“what’s that?”

“first we gotta find the fuckingcar.”

and with that we moved forward into the night, once again joined byamutual interest.

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urban war

the black car and the yellow truckcrashed violently inthe center of the intersection.the black car was stopped in its tracksand sat there honkingwhile the yellow truck veered off from thecollisionand came directly toward mesidewayswith the driver slumped over the wheel.I should put my car in reverse,I thought, but my hand couldn’t findthe gear shift quickly enough.then the yellow truck began to skip offto one sideand I thought, it’s not going to hitme directly, it’s going to scrape mydoor and then it passed by on the right,silently,you couldn’t have slipped a sheet of paperbetween us.then the yellow truck crashed head-on into thecar of a man stopped to my right twocar lengths back.the yellow truck drove him into a third car, bounced off,slanted across thestreet, ran up over a curb and was still.

I had not seen the initial crashI had only heard it.I drove over into a gas stationturned off the engineand sat therelooking at the four crashed cars.there was not a sound.

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if I had been able to put it into reverse,I would be sitting over therewith them now.I started the engine and droveout, thinking, let’s see. where was Igoing? oh yes, the post office.I needed stamps.

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good pay

I went to this same college to read againafter many yearsand the same professor was therein his officeopening his desk drawerto hand me another fat cigaras my new girlfriend stood and watched.

andafter a while we three walked outsideandthe campus was high on a hillall very greenandall the young girls were strolling byjust as they had strolled bymany years agoandI told him, “it’s strange, the girlsdon’t get old here.”“think nothing of it,” he told me

an hour or so later I readgot my checkand then we all went back to the prof’s placefor a few drinks.

he had a new wife (arecent student); the prof was makingout, feeding upon the eternal youthof the campus.

I reached under his wife’s dress andpatted a hunk of flank.then I turned to the prof who was

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bringing us whiskey sours.“how do you get a job like yours?”I asked him.

he passed the drinks out, laughed andsat down.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,”he said.

then I noticed my young girlfriendpressed up against an English majorand giggling.

“it’s easy,” I said, “all I do islie as truthfully as possible.”

“that’s the best description of poetryI’ve heard in a long time,” he replied.

I watched my girlfriend flirting with theEnglish major.

“don’t worry about that kid,” saidthe prof.

“how come?”

“no originality. you’re his main literaryinfluence.”

we finished our drinks.

“you make a great whiskey sour,” I toldhim. “how about another?”

“sure,” he said, got up and left.

I reached up under his wife’s dress andgrabbed some more flank.

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she yanked my hand away:“do that one more time and I’ll kick you in yourballs!”

then my girlfriend came over with theEnglish major.

“this is Sonny Sanderson,” she said,“he wants to meet you.”

I stood up and we shook hands.

“Sonny and I are going to the dance tonight!” saidmy girlfriend. “he says he’s a gooddancer.”

“you can really write,” he said. “howdo you do it?”

“thanks,” I said, “but we’ve got to leavenow. it’s a long drive back to L.A.”

so after finishing the whiskey sour I got upand my girl came along as Sonny Sanderson loomed largein the professor’s doorway.we got into the carandon the drive back I knew how I was going to hear allabout it: how I was no good at parties, how I wasafraid of people and that I couldn’t enjoy myselfand how I often imagined things that weren’t trueand even though I acted very superiorI was actually a very insecure person.

all of which was probably true.

she kept switching stations on the car radioand she kept plugging in the dashboard lighterto re-light her cigarette which kept going outand as her hair kept falling down into herface

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I checked my coat pocket to see of the readingcheck was still there.I turned into the freeway entranceglided into the fast laneturned on the wipers to clear the fogged-upwindshieldand waited to hear all aboutit.

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Panasonic

I haven’t killed all the spiders in this placebut I’ve gotten most of them. there are twoI can’t get. they sit inside the plastic shieldon my radio, solid-state FM-AM, they sitinside where the red dot selects the station.I only listen to FM on two Los Angelesstations, KUSC and KFAC, in that order. they areboth classical music stations.

those are newly cultured spiders. they heard Beethoven’s9th last night and now they are listening to Brahms’2nd. what they are feeding on I am not sure, butthey seem satisfied. only their legs movenow and then.

that radio is educating them. they are now startingto look like some critics I know. by this, pleaseunderstand that I mean no offense to the spiders.

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out of place

I always knew that there was something wrongwith me.it got worse in Jr. High School.when I walked into a roomall the students would begin talkingat onceit got very noisyand I would stand and stare at themand they would talk louder and louderuntil the teacher would bang on thedesk:“ALL RIGHT! ALL RIGHT! THAT’S ENOUGHOF THAT!”

I had no idea of what excited themand as I sat at my deskheads would often turn andstare at me.

these occurrences were commonplaceand because I never did anything untoward orunusualI just knew that there must be somethingwrong with me.

the teachers, too, acted strangely:“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MR. CHINASKI?”(I wouldn’t be doing anything)“YOU WILL PLEASE REMAIN AFTER CLASS!”

it was usually the female teacherswho acted like thisand I liked all my female teacherseven though I felt sorry for them andafterward they never explained to me

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what I had done wrongand I never asked.

on the school grounds it was alsostrange:girls and boys I didn’t know would walk upto me andask, “how are you doing, Henry?”and for some odd reason I’d always reply,“get away from me!”

what it all meant,I never knew.I had no plans, few desires andno impulses.I sensed that there was somethingreally wrong andthat I was a freak.

but since it felt neither good norbad,I accepted the situation andwaited.

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a great place, here

sitting here with my palKraft Meyerbeerwe saw the wetbacks climbing over the wall.Kraft zonkered the first one with a fireballI got the second with my old lugerand then Krafthe got the third onewho looked a little bit like Marlon Brandohe got him in the ass with hiscrossbow.New Mexico is a great place to be,down here by the border.Kraft and mewe sit in the back yard all dayunder the shade treeslistening to Brahms and John Cageand drinking peppermint tea laced withgin.sometimes at night the whores comefloating over the wall with theirbig pink balloon breastsand we slingshot them down withrazor rocks ofquartz.they scream,piss, flop in thecacti.or sometimes we’ll catch a wild dog andskin him alive.things get better and better.yesterday we killed a cop, stuck his ballsin his mouthand left him on a park bench in the townplaza.on Sundays we either burn churches or

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make our ownice cream.the other day a guy put a dent in my fenderso I chained him to my front bumperand drove all the way toPhoenixlike thatand when I got there I rammed himto shitagainst the fanciest whorehouse in town.nobody much bothers us out here,although they’ve threatened to call outthe state troopers.now we don’t want to hurt thosenice boys,lots of them have mothers and sistersand sweetheartsso I hope they stay away.you ought to see our gardenbest garden in townbest in the worldlike the Garden of Edenexcept no snake would dare enterhere.

well, thanks for listeningcome on down and visit meanytime…we’ll find yousomething interestingto do.

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horses don’t bet on people andneither do I…

I look for a seat alone but a couple of rows infront of me sits a bald old man in a greysweater.he has a voice you can hear for 40 yards.the year is 1980, he is talking about somehorse that won a stakes race in 1958.he had bet him to win.“HE WAS 13-TO-ONE! THE HORSE HAD NEVER RUNMORE THAN SEVEN FURLONGS AND THEY WERE ENTERINGHIM IN A MILE-AND-ONE-EIGHTH! WELL, SIR, HEJUMPED IN FRONT AND WENT ALL THE WAY, THE OTHERHORSES NEVER GOT CLOSE TO HIM! IT WAS SOME RACE!”

the man he is talking to turns his head awayand pales, he is suddenly sick.I get up and move, I find a new seat,the closest person to me is three seats awayand she doesn’t even have a Racing Form, she’sworking a crossword puzzle.she looks up at me: “hey, what’s a four-letterword for ‘departed’?”“dead?”“no, that don’t fit…”“gone?”“ah…yeah, that’s it. say, didn’t I see youin some movie? aren’t you a movie star?”“no.”“yes, it was a horror movie, you played a manwho fell out of a bell tower!”

I get up and walk to the escalator andride it down and find a bench in the sun. I sit down thereand then I find I’ve lost my program so I go to one of thevendors and buy a new program.

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“buying another program, buddy?” he asks.

“yeah. you remember me, eh?”

“oh yeah! I remember you!”

I walk quickly back to the escalator, pulling my hatdown over my eyes.as I ride the escalator up, the man next to me iscarrying a portable radio and he has it turned on asloud as it can go.

somebody is singing on that radio.it’s Barry Manilow.

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my failure

I think of devils in helland stare at abeautiful vase offlowersas the woman in my bedroomangrily switches the lighton and off.we have had a very badargumentand I sit in here smokingcigarettes fromIndiaas on the radio anopera singer’s prayers arenot in mylanguage.outside, the window tomy left reveals the nightlights of thecity and I only wishI had the courage tobreak through this simple horrorand make things wellagainbut my petty angerpreventsme.

I realize hell is only what wecreate,smoking these cigarettes,waiting here,wondering here,while in the other roomshe continues to

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sit andswitch the lighton and off,on andoff.

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in memory of a dead jock

he was lookingdowntrying to soothe the horsewhen it reared up,and the top of the gatesliced behind and under theprotective helmetof the jockand crushed his skull.

I had a ticket on the horse,#9. they took it back tothe barn and drove offin an ambulance withthe jock.some minutes later the trackannouncer told the crowdthat the jock wasdead.but the people went right onbetting.one thing I remember, though,is thatten minutes after theannouncementI saw a man jam anentire hot dog into hismouth, you could see themustard, the bun, the relish,the dog all going in,and then he closed his mouth on italland chewed,blinkinggulping.

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he was still alivethe man with the hot dogas the hyenas circledand the toteboardflashed.

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repeat

it’s anold poem:sitting hereagainat 3 a.m.having typed afew,all the cigarettessmoked,the many pageson thefloor,down tothe lastglass ofwine.

now to movethe bodyto thebed

thinking,such easyluck, I’lltakeit:

wine andpoems.

this is thewaythe ancientChinese

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poetswere able tolaugh atand enduredeath andlife

for theirownsake

and forours.

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now you know why we kiss thewall

the sermon’s goodand the hot teaspills into the falcon’seyes.Griff said he’d bringthe stuff at noon andit’s 1:30already.you know how it is:if you found a man ora woman you could trustyou’d doubt them for someother reason.Andre writes that he’steaching acting at theUniversity of Illinoisand the baby I saw thatnightso long agoover red wine and a greatItalian mealhas grown into agolden green creaturerising into girlhood.in this neighborhood nowthe other older girls keepcoming byat midnight andbehind the barnsthe cats sleepin the snow.we touch thingsin our dreamsvital disturbing thingsas our shoes sit under

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the bed, one straight upthe other on itsside.and I wonder whyso many greatcomposers have been unable tofinish more than9 symphonies asI get up andwalk across spacein my attemptto find thedoor.

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that’s who sent them

dead flowers in a vase looking across at me in a roomdark because I do not choose light; they have shut offthe water again and are now banging on the pipes; this isa madhouse, they raided here last night and I would notlet them in, the chain held and I moved the sofa againstthe door and I called my lawyer and my fat whore criedand at last they went away; this Sunday drags its snake-shapein and out of the light sockets, the phone rings and leapson the couch like a punched dog, and right away I think I mayhave been poisoned as I walk over to the flowersbut my hands are too weak to take them out not nowso white white or so pink pink but rotten dead dead deadand the squawk of a jay rips through the window likecannonfire from an earlier age, and I stand withdead flowers and ringing, sunlight now burning mypale face and pale heart, and I take theflowers white not so white, pink not so pink, it’slike turning out the light, and I throw them throw themthrow them out OUT as I move and answer thephone and a voice says HAPPY BIRTHDAY DARLING.

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it’s just me

I am such an unpopular humanbeing.I should have been born a frog,or perhaps something a bit higherup the trunk of a birch tree:a red-headed woodpecker?a bushy-tailed squirrel?

I don’t seem to fit in anywhere.in cafes, restaurants,I say strange things to thewaiters and waitresses,nothing ugly,just rather airyand not quitebefitting.I find it funnybut nobody else doesespeciallythe lady with me:“you embarrass me inpublic!”

on freeways I also seemout of place.I slow down to allow peoplewho are changing lanesto move into the space in frontof me.

I did this oncewhile driving with ayoung lady.she exploded inscornful laughter:

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“you don’t HAVE to dothat!”

I am often at a losswhen confronted by a crisis.once an old mannext to meon the sidewalktripped and fell.I only stared down athim.others rushed upto help(I never seem to be insync with the rest ofhumanity)but my first reaction had beento think thatif I was that old manI wouldn’t want anybody touchingmeor trying to helpme.

I should have been born a rogue elephantor a giant lizard scorched by the sun.for example,a friend will point a woman outto meand say,“God, isn’t she beautiful!”and I will look at that faceand see a determinationa threatso greatthat I wonder why the godsdo not place a warning sign on herthat says“LOOK OUT FOR THIS ONEUNLESS YOU WISH TO DIE A LINGERINGDEATH.”

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I guess I am just out of stepwith most others.for instance, I don’t sleeplike mostat regular hours.this has given me much trouble in myrelationships.suddenly, say at 3 p.m.,on any afternoonI might disrobeclimb into bed andannounce,“I’m going to sleep now.”I do this because I feellike sleeping thenand like to believe thatI have a right to this animalfreedom.yet some of the ladies I have knownhave found thisinconvenientselfishand have finally leftmebecause of that(but they would have left mefor some other reasonanyhow,or if not,I would have leftthem).

it’s a sad fact butI disagree with almost everyone I know.I think most movies are terribleand television is even worse.there is nothing I hate more than idleconversation.the exploration of Spacebores me

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and I can find more of interestin the daily newspaper than inall the literature ofall the centuries.

happy to be aloneI sit here at 3 a.m. andclip my toenails asI think aboutmy favorite philosopherwho said:“I am Popeye the Sailor ManI live in a garbage canI like to go swimmin’with bow-legged wimminand I yam what I yamwhat I yam!”

put that in your smoke andpipe it.

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then I know why

when I see those cowboys driving the freewaysin their bright red pickup truckssayon a sunny day in Marchwith a beautiful dog(or dogs)untethered and lurching in thetruck bedsI wonder about those cowboys, aboutwhat philosophy they live with andby,about what noble sentimentsmotivate them,and when I pull alongside toget a lookfirst at the frightened animalsand then at their heedless masters,I am never readyfor the swell ofangerthat rises within me,a spiritual despairso great thatI can feel itas somethingphysical,like a hammer blowto the gut, the head and themind, andthen I know whyI’ve had so much troublein the factoriesin the barsat partiespicnics

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at any gathering of theclan,large or small:all there is to them arearms, legs, heads, ears, eyes, emptypartsstitched togetherwithoutanything meaningful inside.there is absolutely nothing one cansay to them andto rail against them would beakin tofiring bullets into a pile ofshit.

the crushed animals I seeleft along the sideof the freewayboth dead and dying—we wouldn’t leave humans therelike thatto expire and rot in the sun,it would remind ustoo muchof our own feeble deaths to comewhichmost oftenin funeral aftermathare farmore farcical thanprofound.

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her only son

to endure is onlymeaningfulif you come outwithsomethingat the otherend.but to enduresimply in order toendureis the unfortunateplightof millions.

I rememberthe timeI buried myloveand driving backafter thefuneral withher only soninstead of recognizingthe factof his mother’sneglected and lonelyadult life and deathallhe talked aboutwas how muchmoneyhe wasmakingnow.

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he thoughthe had enduredbuthehadn’t.there wasnothingleft ofhis lifetolose.

he was like aslab ofmeatin abutcher shop.

and to thinkshe used totalk abouthim lovinglyalmostevery nightbefore wefellasleep.

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the wrong way

luxury ocean linerscrossing the waterfull of the indolentand richpassing from this place to thatwith their hearts goneand their guts emptylike Xmas turkeysthe great blue sky abovewastedall that waterwastedall thosefingers, heads, toes, buttocks,eyes, ears, legs, feetasleep intheir American Express Cardstaterooms.

it’s like a floating tombgoing nowhere.

these are the floating dead.yet the dead are not uglybut the near-dead surelyaremostsurely are.

when do they laugh?what do they think aboutlove?

what are they

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doingmidst all that water?and where do they seekto go?

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4

you begin by starving in cheaproomsand you end up byasking your lawyerto keep an eye on yourtax accountant.make a poem out ofthat.

I move to the city of San Pedro

when I first moved herethe neighbors were friendly.the old couple next doorcame to the fenceand she said:“anything we can do foryou, let us know. we’rehome all the time.”“thank you,” I toldthem.

the young couple tothe westdidn’t say much.“we keep a low profile,”the husband told me.“I like that,”I said.

things were quiet fora couple of weeks.I dug around in the garden,planted some cornand radishes.

then one nightmy lady and Ihad a bad night.we drank too much andshe declaredher independenceand revealedher true feelingsabout mebut either she

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came on too strongor she worded itbadly;her tone seemed todrip with apure and bitterhatred.

anyhow,it maddened my thoughtprocessesand we ended upat 8:30 a.m. on avery sunny Sunday morningme nakedtotally imbecilicchasing herthrough the garden whilehurling rockswildly andscreaming:YOU GOD-DAMNED ROTTEN WHORE!”and so forth and so on.

after a time, of course,it all abatedand things becamequiet again.

nowthe old couple nextdoorspeak to me verylittle.he, curtly.she, never.

but the young coupleto the westhave becomefriendlier.

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he started coming by,knocking, and leaving meloaves of fresh-baked breadfrom their oven.

then he cameto my New Year’s party withhis wife.

as the months went onhe came over formany beers.

recently he cameto the door witha couple of bottles ofwine and said, “I’d like to talkand drink with you.”

then his wife arrived andwe were joined bymy lady andwe drank his two bottles.

I have never quite repeatedmy opening act ofnaked-in-the-yard-at-8:30 a.m.

and I hope I never do

but it’s curiouswhatappeals to some people.

it could be thatwhat we think iscorrect oftenisnot very interesting.

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sometimes I even think I’d liketo havea neighborjust like me

but when I reallythink it throughI know thatI could not standthat.

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be angry at San Pedro

I say to my woman, “Jeffers wasa great poet. think of a titlelike Be Angry at the Sun. don’t yourealize how great that is?”

“you like that negative stuff,” shesays.

“positively,” I agree, finishing mydrink and pouring another.“in one of Jeffers’ poems, not the sun poem,this woman fucks a stallion because herhusband is such a gross spirit. and it’sbelievable. then the husband goes outto kill the stallion and the stallionkills him.”

“I never heard of Jeffers,” shesays.

“you never heard of Big Sur? Jeffersmade Big Sur famous just like D.H. Lawrencemade Taos famous. when agreat writer writes about where helives the mob comes in and takesover.”

“well, you write about San Pedro,” shesays.

“yeah,” I say, “and have you read thepapers lately? they are going to constructa marina here, one of the largest in theworld, millions and billions of dollars,there is going to be a huge shopping

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center, yachts and condominiums everywhere!”

“and to think,” my woman says smiling, “that you’ve onlylived here for three years!”

“I still think,” I say,changing the subject,“you ought to read Jeffers.”

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lost in San Pedro

no way back to Barcelona.the green soldiers have invaded the tombs.madmen rule Spainand during a heat wave in 1952 I buried my last concubine.

no way back to the Rock of Gibraltar.the bones of the hands of my mother are so still.

stay still now, motherstay still.

the horse tossed the jockthe horse fellthen got upon only 3 legs—the 4th bent nearly in twoand all the people anguished for the jockbut my heart ached for the horsethe horsethe horseit was terribleit was truly terrible.

I sometimes think about one or the other of my women.I wonder what we were hoping for when we lived together

our minds shattered like the 4th leg of that horse.

remember when women wore dresses and high heels?remember whenever a car door opened all the men turned to look?it was a beautiful time and I’m glad I was there to see it.

no way back to Barcelona.

the world is less than a fishbone.

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this place roars with the need for mercy.there is this fat gold watch sitting here on my desksent to me by a German cop.I wrote him a nice letter thanking him for itbut the police have killed more of my life than the crooks.

nothing to do but wait for the pulling of the shade.I pull the shade.

my 3 male cats have had their balls clipped.now they sit and look at me with eyes emptiedof all but killing.

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justice

you take the train fromGermany to Parisand you know when you’vecrossed the border:the train stops andFrench soldiers jumpon.two of them run intoour compartment.they seem angry aswe flash our passportsbut they aremore interested in theblack American soldiersittingacross from us.they speak to himrapidly in French.one of them grabs himby the coatwhile the otherrips down his suitcasefrom overheadopens itdumps the contentson the floor.

they theypullthe American soldierup on his feetindicatefor him toput his thingsback

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into his suitcasewhichhe doesthen they yank himout of the compartmentandtake him away.

the train sits awhilethen jerksinto motion.soon we are atfull speed.

“that was terrible,”says my wife,“I wonder what hedid?”

“he was lookingupyour legs,”I tell her.

“that’s nonsense,”she says.

“I like the French,”I sayopening uptwo miniature bottles ofred winefor usas the little villages inthe landscapeslip by.

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a boor

we are sitting in the cafewaiting.I’ve read yesterday’s race resultsand today’s entries over andover.

“everybody else has rolls,”she says. “I wonder whyour waitress hasn’t broughtus our rolls?”

“which waitress is ours?”I ask.

“you ordered. don’t youlook at people?”

“not before eating. whichone is she?”

“she’s over there foldingnapkins. she won’t lookup.”

“that one?”

“that one.”

I spear a napkin on my fork andwhirl it around and aroundover my head.

“oh, stop that!” my woman says.

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the waitress sees me and walksover.

“where are our rolls?” Iask.

“rolls are 75 centsextra,” she says.

“good. bring us four orders ofrolls, please.”

our waitress leaves.

“besides that,” my woman says, “shehasn’t brought us our order.it’s been sitting there for 5minutes.”

“how do you know?”

“I can see it sitting over there.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“it’s behind the glass partition.I can see it.”

our waitress comes with fourorders of rolls and butter.

“thank you,” I say, “but I wonderwhy you don’t bring us our dinner?it’s been ready for 5 minutes.”

“that’s not your order, sir. thoseare display meals.”

our waitress walks off.

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“eat your rolls,” I say tomy lady.

“no, I don’t want to spoil mydinner.”

“please pass me the front page.”

“no, I’m reading it.”

so I stare at a strange womanuntil she turns and glares atme.

then our order comesonlyanother waitress bringsit.

“thank you,” I say.

the new waitress walks off.

“the other waitress couldn’tstand you,” says my lady.

“I hate to ruin somebody’sday,” I say.

“well, you have”.

“it happens almost everywhereI go,” I reply.

it’s a good place.they serve only seafood and the tables areclean and comfortable.

I eat the dinner.my woman eats hers.

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I tip 15% and we leave.

walking toward our car in the parkinglotshe says, “you ate all the rolls.”

“yeah,” I say.

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out of the dark

the tiger killed 4 wild dogs before therest of the packfinished him off,then therains came and the dogs shivered in the wash of waterwhile devouring thetiger as at dawn today a man entered the freeway the wrong waycrashed into 7 carskilling one commuterinjuringelevenas this morning for breakfast I had 4 hard-boiled eggs sprinkledwith chili powderalong witha glass of orangejuicewhile thinking aboutthe old man next door who died last night: I will miss watchinghim tug at the crabgrass in his lawn.

the constant is in the occurring and the occurring isconstant.

beautiful things can be terrible and terrible things can bebeautiful.

I must rememberto thank thegods latertoday for allthat.

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for the foxes

don’t feel sorry for me.I am a competent,satisfied human being.

be sorry for the otherswhofidgetcomplain

whoconstantlyrearrange theirliveslikefurniture.

juggling matesandattitudes

theirconfusion isconstant

and it willtouchwhoever theydeal with.

beware of them:one of theirkey words is“love.”

and beware those who

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only takeinstructions from theirGod

for they havefailed completely tolive their ownlives.

don’t feel sorry for mebecause I am alone

for evenat the most terriblemomentshumoris mycompanion.

I am a dog walkingbackwards

I am a brokenbanjo

I am a telephone wirestrung up inToledo, Ohio

I am a maneating a mealthis nightin the month ofSeptember.

put your sympathyaside.they saywater held upChrist:to come

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throughyou better benearly aslucky.

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poem for Brigitte Bardot

coronets alive with the fire of wine,contents of flax, names, speeches,and I see where Brigitte Bardotcut her wrist and took some pills,but like the rest of us she will manage to continuein spite of everything,and then for no reason at all I rememberanother young womanlooking down from the windowin her dirty underwearmany years agoscreaming my hangover name on aPhiladelphia Sunday morning,and I rememberthe way we decorated the trees in the snowoutside the bar thereon the sidewalkthat Christmas Dayfalling down like drunken bearslaughing and tramping over the tinsel.yes, I am sorry, Brigitte, if it is not going wellfor you, but it’s bad all around;you see, I have figured out that seagullsare mad angelstrying to tell us something,and as they dip and screech before our eyesthe sea comes up for air and spirits themaway.so I am truly sorry, Brigitte,that you are not doing well butI have just turned both my pockets outand found just three pennieson my dresser, undress,shave and go to sleepalthough there is something wrong

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with my left arm, it’s stiff as hell and hurts(polio? bad blood or something?)and today as I walked through the supermarketI looked at oranges and apples and cucumbersand at the barbecued chickens turning on their spitslike great men burning in their own fire,but since I am no thief I bought cigarettes and left,and I still had three cents remainingand I stood and read the headline in the paperand saw your pictureand I looked aroundand on the tall building across the streeta man crouchedready to leap, and a dog went by with a bonein his mouth, something dead,and I am sorry for you, Brigitte, and I too havelove problems, but I still have my typewriter,a radio, and all the water I can drink,so I will have one for you, a tallone, and I’ll shake my arm, turn on the radioand hope for Brahms or Beethoven,and maybe in the morning the man will havejumped, maybe I will have jumped,and maybe through picture postcards andcoffins, through arcades of roses and screaming,maybe through the towers and tables and Christmas treesyour lover will come and kiss you once againunder the cigarette and cucumber sun.

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having the flu and with nothingelse to do

I read a book about John Dos Passos and according tothe book once radical-communistJohn ended up in the Hollywood Hills living off investmentsand reading theWall Street Journal.

this seems to happen all too often.

what hardly ever happens isa man going from being a young conservative to becoming anold wild-ass radical.

however:young conservatives always seem to become oldconservatives.it’s a kind of lifelong mental vapor-lock.

but when a young radical ends up anold radicalthe criticsand the conservativestreat him as if he escaped from a mentalinstitution.

such is our politics and you can have itall.

keep it.

sail it up yourass.

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a time to remember

at North Avenue 21 drunk tank you slept on the floor and at nightthere was always some guy who would step on your face on hisway to the crapperand then you would curse him good, set him straight, so thathe would know enough to either be more careful or tojust lay there and hold it.

there was a large hill in back dense with foliageyou could see it through the barred windowand a few of the guys after being released would not go back toskid row, they’d just walk up into that green hill wherethey lived like animals.part of it was a campground and some lived out of thetrash cans while others trekked back to skid row for meals but thenreturnedand they all sold their blood each week forwine.

there must have been 18 or 20 of them up there andthey were more or less just as happy as corporate lawyersstockbrokers or airlinepilots.

civilization is divided into parts, like an orange, and when youpeel the skin off, pull the sections apart, chew it, thefinal result is a mouthful of pale pulp which you can eitherswallow or spitout.

some just swallow itlike the guys down at North Avenue21.

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“I demand a little respect”

the strangest thingafter living with awomanfor someyears

is thatno matter whatmiraculousthings you mightaccomplish

they leaveherunimpressed.

for instanceyou could leap60 feetstraight up intothe airand

she wouldhardlynotice.

but letsomebody elsejump two inchesoffthe ground and

this same womanwould

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applaudenthusiasticallyas if thatwas something reallyspecial.

at timesat this bitterestmomentone realizes thatno matter how manyyearsone has lived withthe samewoman

one has reallyalwayslivedalone.

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pink silks

I think ofnew roses, angry cats, leaning fences and oldphotographs of young CharlesLindberghand hisSpirit of St. Louisas my spiritdrives along the seaover grumpy dirt roadsnastier than acheap cigarand as I drive alongalone and carefreethe homes of the richup aboveseem demented, unclear andfrightenedon their flattenedmountaintops.where I live nowfriends turn cold andsuddenly oldand when they laugh I see theirfalse teethbut at least theylaugh—that’s as important as cleanlaundry.and, over in Andernach,my Uncle Heindied at 93, andI’m sure his back is as straight in thecasket as it was inlife, a stout Kraut,

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my Uncle Heinrich!the perfect music of a natural event isastonishing:as I watch a jockeywalking from the stable areaalonein the finest pink silks(with thin greenpiping)carrying his whip looselyon his way to a waiting groom,I see centuries of mankindapproaching the impossiblewith casual courage;the bite of reality doesn’t kill,it only clears the mind.what I like best, I guess, is thateverything eventuallyresolves itselfadjusts itselfheals itselfno matter what I think ordo, butstill, the swift and ugly courseof common and uncommonexperienceoften bedazzles even thosemuch smarter thanmyself.so just wind me uprun me over the edge ofthe coffee table towhere the sky drops into the sea—to the lastunutterable end that one daywe all will experience andfinally know.

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milk a cow and you get milk

I’ve mostly stopped worshippingother writers nowpast or presentbut I was a writer junkie fora long time.I think I read everybook about D. H.Lawrence, and those greatphotos:there was D. H.actually milking acow.and there wasFrieda and there was A.Huxleyand allthe others.

I once thoughtwriting was magicsomething thatmagic peopledid.I didn’t think it wouldbe like this.

I thought it would benaturalsimplelikemaking toast orskiing down ahill.

it all looked so fuckingeasy from thatdistance.

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oh, to be young in 1942!

4-F in Louisiana, couldn’t convince the army shrink I was sane, didn’tmind,liked to drink but that was about all, the only talent I had—otherwise,I couldn’t figure out the top from the bottom from the middle—sittingthere in theGang Plank Bar with toothless whores and the other idiotsof the night, the drinks were cheap but watered and I wanted tobe in love with a millionairess and live with her in a New York Citypenthouse with green plants surrounding us with their octopus armsbutno, of course, it wasn’t going to be that way, everything was goingto bedry and dumb and listless, and there I sat in my body with allmy wretched parts, right smack in the middle of American historywhich wantednothing to do with me and I didn’t want much to do with it eitherandit was all very strange but not too strange because my father hadalwaystold me that the way I THOUGHT meant that there was no chance forme, that I wouldalways be a useless misfit doomed to early destruction and shame,andI had no DRIVE, he said, and he was right because I felt bestwhen I was sucking on those watered drinks—that seemed the apex of life to me—and the proudest accomplishmentthat Icould point to was my rented room across the street (paid upfor ONE FULL WEEK) that was plenty of miracle for me, andthe people in the bar thought I was crazy just like the armyshrink thought I was, and they didn’t speak to me, but then theyhardly spoke to each other eitherand

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one night I got tired of the bar and I walked out and keptwalking and I walked and walked all the way down to the Gulf ofMexico and sat there with my legs dangling over the pierconsidering nothing but the waitingand I sucked on the bottle of wine I had purchased on the wayand I listened to the water making sounds likewoosh woosh wooshover and over againand I liked that but the water stank and I got up andwalked around the edge of the pier and into the profound darknessand I was drunker than usual and then I was walkingthrough deep mud with a light rain falling and I thought, man, youmust be crazy like they sayorwhy would you keep walking through this mud?and then a searchlight was shined on me from a tower(I saw the tower framed behind the light and I thought, what the hellis that?) and a voice screamed “HALT!”the war was everywhere and I had stumbled into forbiddenterritory and I turned and started running and theLIGHT FOLLOWED ME. then therewas a shot and then another shot (and a pause) and then anothershot. somebody wasfiring at me butwhy? and I stumbled and fell headlong into the mudthenI got up and I thought, fuck it, this fits my suicide wishperfectlyand I stopped runningI walked away andthere were a couple more shots but not nearly as close asthe others and I kept walking through the mud until I found astreet and I walked up the street andI walked all the way back to the Gang Plank Barand I walked in and sat down and ordered a drink. Iwas covered with mud—all over my face, hands, clothing—yetnobody said anything and the bartender served me and I pickedup

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my watered drink and drank it downordered anotherdrank it downand then just for the hell of it Ididn’t pay Ijust walked out of there and back to my room sat in a corner like LittleJack Horner

took off my shoesmy stockingsall heavy with mudand I thought, I’m never going back to that bar againand I didn’t(it was the most depressing place I had everbeen and I had been inplenty like it)sotoo drunk to undress and not wanting to dirty theroominghouse sheetsI slept on the floorto be checked out laterby my roomiesthe roachesfor sanity or whatever it was they werelooking for.

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the condition book

the long days at the track haveswallowed and consumedme.I am the horses, the jocks, I am six furlongs, sevenfurlongs, I am a mile-and-one-sixteenth, I am ahandicap, I am all the colors of all the silks, I amthe photo finishes, the accidents, the deaths, thelast place finishes, the breakdowns, the failure ofthe toteboard, the dropped whip and the numb painof the dream not come true in a thousandfaces, I am the long drive home in thedark, in the rain, I am decades and decadesof races run and won and lost and run again and I ammyself sitting with a program and a Racing Form.I am the racetrack, my ribs are the wooden rails, myeyes are the flashes of the toteboard, my feet arehooves and there is something riding on my back, I amthe last turn, I am the home stretch, I am the longshotand the favorite, I am the exacta, the daily double andthe pick-6.I am humanly destroyed, I am the horseplayer whobecame therace and thetrack.

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the kid from Santiago

they brought this kid up from Chile,expressionless, flattenednose, shoulder bladeslike angel’s wings, they threw him right intoa ten-round main event againstSugar Boy Matsonwinner of 14 straight, eleven of them byk.o., the kid’s name wasYaro, heknocked out Matson in 2, luckypunch maybe, so they bring in the4th-ranked welterweight5 weeks later andYaro gets himin the 4th.the kid gets hishair styled, anew Thunderbird, a blonde withlavender eyes anda book on English grammar.he begins tosniff coke and snow, getsthe 2nd-ranked welter inthe 3rd, flieshis mother up from Santiago, marrieslavender eyes,gets thechamp, gets k.o.’d by the champ inthe 12th round. then hegoes against the7th-ranked welter, losesa split decision, goes against the8th-ranked, gets a bad cutover the righteye and they

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stop the fight; next he goes against anew kid from Panama, gets k.o.’d in the2nd, goes back toChile with his mother andlavender eyes—there ismoney, they have been careful, they buya nice house, they allsit still and lookaround, he is in trainingagain, looksfine, won his last 3 downthere: onesplit decision, one unanimous decision,and the last ak.o., all againstlavendereyes—one on theveranda, one in thebedroom andthe last in the backyard in the rain.he always had fasthands, but as they used to say,he had toget off fast—get out in front—towin. that was thechink in his armor.it’s common, there arelots ofmen like that, andhorsestoo.

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room service

she comes in with all goodintentions whileI’m atthis machine.

perhaps thesound of itencourages herto try to bring me moreluck and success.

but when sheenters suddenlyand I hear hervoice

I leap wildlyfrom this chair

scream:“HOLY JESUS CHRIST!”

she hands mea snackupon a plate.

“thank you,” Itell her, “but youreally scared theshit out ofme. you know,when I’m at thistyperI’m gonearound

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some corner.”

“sorry, daddy,”she says, “Iforgot.”

“it’s all right,”I tell her…

only to have herrepeatthis processthe nightafter next.

love, of course,excuseseverything

and that’s whenfools such as Ipick at snackschange ribbonsclean the ashtrayand wonderwherethe last sentencewent.

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passport

I went to get a passport photo.the lady was in her late thirtiesher breasts about to fall outof her dress.she took me in the backand sat me down under the lights.“you’ve got an interesting face,”she said.I wanted to tell her about her breaststhat they were interestingbut I didn’t.“are you a writer?” she asked, lookingat my paperwork.“yes,” I admitted.she took the first shot.“why don’t you bring around some ofyour books?” she asked.“I never display my wares,” I answered.she took a second shot.“what do you write about most?” she asked.“women,” I admitted.“that’ll be twenty dollars,” she said.I paid her.“the photos will be ready in 3 days,” shesaid, “but I wish you’d bring your booksaround.”

I walked back down Western Ave.crossed the bridgeover the freeway.the retaining fence wasn’t very high.a person could quite easily fall over into thetraffic below. I walked quite a distance fromthat fence.

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I wanted to get safely to Paris.I had taken a lot of abuse for thatpassport photo.

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darlings of the word

2 poets from San Francisco (onequite famous) are down here in L.A.and she’s gone out to hear themread.

I’m gladat the momentthatI don’t have toread in publicanymore.

I never typed thisstuffto get up andread it tothe mob.

I used to read for the$$$it helped pay the rentbut when I hear of thefamous and the well-offstill doing itI marvelat theirchoice.

it has always seemedcurious to methatpoetsare suchextroverts.

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they love toget up there andwarble.

I once asked apoet about thisitchand he told me:“it’s as old as languageitself: poets throughoutthe agesused to walk up anddown the streetssinging their rhymes,their songs. poetrybelongs to the people.”

“I don’t know about that,”I said, “but I guess evenwriting for the printedpage is a form ofvanity.”

“poetry belongs to thepeople!” herepeated.

“all right,” I said, “let’sforget it.”

if I had wanted to bean actorI would have goneto Hollywood.

the only necessarypoetic actis the writingof the poem

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and all that followsispropaganda.

theteachersthelecturesthereadings never

can equal orreplacewhat beginsit all.

2 poets from SanFrancisco aredown herenow

sofardownhere

now.

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KFAC

here I sitagainas the radio announcersays, “for the next3 hours we will be listeningto a selection of…”

it’s now eleven p.m.I’ve listened to this man’svoicefor many many years.he must be getting quiteold.his station plays the bestclassicalmusic.

I don’t recall how manywomen I have lived withwhile listening to thatannouncer,orhow many cars I’veownedor how many places I’velived in.

now each time I hear hisvoice I think, well, he’s stillalive, he sounds goodbut the poor fellow must begetting very old.

some dayhe’ll have his funeral,

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a little trail of carsfollowingthe hearse.

and thenthere’ll bea new voiceto listen to.

he must be very old now,that fellow,and every time I hear his voiceagainI pour a tall oneto salute himhappy that he’s made itfor one morenightalong with me.

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it is good to know when you aredone

most things work out in the end.you walk around lighting cigarettes,getting old, and fat, and feeling quitecommon. it is only a gesture when youput on your shoes, make love, remember, say,once reading a novel. you even lie to yourfriends about the weather and your health.is it Wednesday or is it Thursday? you go toa piano recital or see a football game: it’s justa way of continuing. you sleep. sleepis best. a little nightly game of death betweenyou and life. you get ready. sometimesflowers open, sometimes flowers die. youget intoxicated. you smoke too much.you cut your toenails. you phone somebodywho doesn’t interest you. then you say,quietly, to hell with it. I am done.everybody is done, finally. it isgood to know when you are done. now youcan be a fat snake crawling intoa dark waterwell, down into the dark.now you can know why you are alcoholic.there are just too many sober people.sober people are not really soberjust because they think they are. idiotsaren’t sober because they do things intheir own way and disregard the world.you don’t ask for an end but it comes.like an army drawn on funny white paper.and it is like having wisdom in yourfingertips. it is like knowingthe names of the planets and it is likeseeing green moss on the dark side of atree and letting it envelop you.

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the headstrong are the worst.the headstrong become preachers then politiciansthen saints and lovers. they are doomed.the truth is in seeing straight on down the line.there have been many good men who are nowdead, and there are yet some good living ones:their dumb lips move and their eyes are openand they are mute, like trees and distant stars.it makes me sad to knowthat one day they too will all be dead forthe dead are everywhere,their armies haunt my restless nightsand yet, after all, it is so much betterthat they once were here.

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TB

I had it for a year, really put ina lot ofbedroom time, slept upright ontwo pillows to keep from coughing,all the blood drained from my headand often I’d awaken to find myselfslipping sideways off thebed.since my TB was contagious I didn’thave any visitors and the phonestopped ringingand that was the luckypart.

during the day I tried TV and food,neither of which went down verywell.the soap operas and the talk showswere adaytime nightmare,so for the lack of anything elseto doI watched the baseballgamesand led the Dodgers to apennant.not much else for me to doexcept take antibiotics and the coughmedicine.I also really saved puttingmileage on the carand missed the hell out ofthe old racetrack.

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you realize when you’replucked out of the mainstream thatit doesn’t need you oranybody else.the birds don’t notice you’re gone,the flowers don’t care,the people out there don’t notice,but the IRS,the phone co.,the gas and electric co.,the DMV, etc.,they keep in touch.

being very sick and being dead arevery much the samein society’seye.

either way,you might just as welllay back andenjoy it.

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a song with no end

when Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric”

I know what hemeantI know what hewanted:

to be completely alive every momentin spite of the inevitable.

we can’t cheat death but we can make itwork so hardthat when it does takeus

it will have known a victory just asperfect asours.

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the lucky ones

stuck in the rain on the freeway, 6:15 p.m.,these are the lucky ones, these are thedutifully employed, most with their radios on as loudas possible as they try not to think or remember.

this is our new civilization: as menonce lived in trees and caves now they livein their automobiles and on freeways as

the local news is heard again and again whilewe shift from first gear to second and back to first.

there’s a poor fellow stalled in the fast lane ahead, hoodup, he’s standing against the freeway fencea newspaper over his head in the rain.

the other cars force their way around his car, pull out intothe next lane in front of cars determined to shut them off.

in the lane to my right a driver is being followed by apolice car with blinking red and blue lights—he surelycan’t be speeding as

suddenly the rain comes down in a giant wash and all thecars stop and

even with the windows up I can smell somebody’s clutchburning.

I just hope it’s not mine as

the wall of water diminishes and we go back into firstgear; we are all stilla long way from home as I memorizethe silhouette of the car in front of me and the shape of the

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driver’s head orwhatI can see of it above the headrest whilehis bumper sticker asks meHAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR KID TODAY?

suddenly I have the urge to screamas another wall of water comes down and theman on the radio announces that there will be a 70 percentchance of showers tomorrow night.

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spelling it out on my computer

enter, it says here.delete, it says there.return, it says.shift, it says.it says, control.it says, tab.it says, clear.as the trees swing in the wind past midnight,I was once twenty-five years oldand much stronger, much braverthan I am nowknown halfway around theworld.

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crazy as a fox

Xmas season.I was a young boy and there was my mother and there wewere in a department store.my mother stopped before a glass caseand I stopped too.the case was full of toy soldiers, some with riflesand bayonets, others were mounted on fine horses,there were toy cannons and there were soldiers withmachine guns.there were even realistic trenches with barbed wireand there were airplanes and tanks.my mother asked, “do you want some of these toysoldiers, Henry?”“no,” I said.I knew we were poor and I didn’t want her to spendthe moneybut I badly wanted those soldiers in their coloreduniforms, their different helmets with alltheir stances: marching, charging, kneeling and firing.there were officers and enlisted men, there wereflags, there were raised swords…

“are you sure you don’t want somesoldiers, Henry?”

“no, thank you,” I said.

we walked on, went to another department where mymother bought me stockings and underwear.they would be wrapped in bright packages andplaced under the tree.later I blamed myself andthat Christmas was disappointing but when the real war finallycame along, as wars will do, and I was found wanting bythe army psychiatrist, thenI was very pleased to recognize and accept my peculiarinsanity.

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cats and you and me

the Egyptians loved the catwere often entombed with itinstead of with the childand never with the dog.

and nowheregood people withthe souls of catsare very few

yet here and now manyfine catswith great stylelounge aboutin the alleys ofthe universe.

aboutour argument tonightwhatever it wasaboutandno matterhow unhappyit made usfeel

remember thatthere is acatsomewhereadjusting to thespace of itselfwith a calm

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and delightfulease.in other wordsmagic persists withor without usno matter howwe may try todestroy it

and I woulddestroy the last chance formyself

that this might alwayscontinue.

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they need what they need

out here near San Pedro we haveone of the largest airplanesin the worldwhich doesn’t flysitting next toone of the largest ocean linersin the worldwhich no longer cruisesand the people stand in long lineson steaming summer afternoonsand payin order toexamine these lifelessmonuments.

show them somethinguseful and reallike a Cézanne or a Miróand they’ll just look atyou andwonder.

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hello, how are you?

this fear of being what they are:dead.

at least they are not out on the street, theyare careful to stay indoors, thosepasty mad who sit alone before their TV sets,their lives full of canned, mutilated laughter.

their ideal neighborhoodof parked carsof little green lawnsof little homesthe little doors that open and closeas their relatives visitthroughout the holidaysthe doors closingbehind the dying who die so slowlybehind the dead who are still alivein your quiet average neighborhoodof winding streetsof agonyof confusionof horrorof fearof ignorance.

a dog standing behind a fence.

a man silent at the window.

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one thirty-six a.m.

I laugh sometimes when I think aboutsayCéline at a typewriteror Dostoevsky…or Hamsun…ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes,ordinary men with hair on their headssitting there typing wordswhile having difficulties with lifewhile being puzzled almost to madness.

Dostoevsky gets uphe leaves the machine to piss,comes backdrinks a glass of milk and thinks aboutthe casino andthe roulette wheel.

Céline stops, gets up, walks to thewindow, looks out, thinks, my last patientdied today, I won’t have to make any morevisits there.when I saw him lasthe paid his doctor bill;it’s those who don’t pay their bills,they live on and on.Céline walks back, sits down at themachineis still for a good two minutesthen begins to type.

Hamsun stands over his machine thinking,I wonder if they are going to believeall these things I write?he sits down, begins to type.

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he doesn’t know what a writer’s blockis:he’s a prolific son-of-a-bitchdamn near as magnificent asthe sun.he types away.

and I laughnot out loudbut all up and down these walls, thesedirty yellow and blue wallsmy white cat asleep on thetablehiding his eyes from thelight.

he’s not alone tonightand neither amI.

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harbor freeway south

the dead dogs of nowhere barkas you approach anothertraffic accident.

3 carsone standing on itsgrillthe other 2 layingon their sideswheels turning slowly.

3 of themat rest:strange anglesin the dark.

it has justhappened.

I can see the stillbodiesinside.

these carsscattered like toysagainst the freewaycenterdivider.

like spacecraftthey have landedthere

as youdrive past.

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there’s noambulance yetno policecars.

the rain began15 minutesago.

things occur.

volcanoes are1500 times morepowerful thanthe first a-bomb.

the dead dogs ofnowherethose dogs keepbarking.

those carsthere like that.

obscene.a dirty trick.

it’s likesomebody dyingof a heartattackin a crowdedelevator

everybodywatching.

I finallyreach my streetpull into

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the driveway.

park.get out.

she meets mehalfwayto the door.

“I don’t knowwhat to do,”she says, “thestovewent out.”

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gamblers all

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,I’m not going to make it, but you laugh insideremembering all the times you’ve felt that way, andyou walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that facein the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch thenewspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss yourwife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as youpunchthe radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you willsomehowget through the slow days and the busy days and the dulldays and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightfuland so disappointing becausewe are all so alike and all so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerouspart of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart workshis way into your brain and slides down along your bones andout through your shoes.

it’s been a tough fight worth fightingas we all drive alongbetting on another day.

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guitars

luckilywe don’t have manyvisitorsbut when we dosometimes one willnotice my wife’sguitarpropped againstthe walland then thenightwill turn toruin.

“oh, a guitar!”

“yes,” my wife willsay.

“do you mind?”

“of course not!”my wife willsay.

the visitor willgo get theguitarcome backsit downand beginstrummingit.

“oh, you play?”

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my wife willask.

“a littlebit.”

the visitor willthen begin toplay.

the voiceand theguitar areright next toyou,almost underyour nose.

it is anoriginalwork,both thewords and themusic.

we get thebest ofeverything.

the visitorfinishes.

“that wasnice!” my wifewill explain.

and the visitorwill beginright awayto play and singanother

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original.

to me it isembarrassing,I don’t knowwhy.

well, first becausethe singingisn’t all thatgood andsecond becausethere is somethingabout a guitarthat I just don’tlike.

nowthere is one songafter another.there’s no stoppingthe visitor,he or shehas a very largerepertoire.

at first I growdizzy, then a bitnauseous.

the music continues.for what seemsa lifetime.

I will finallysay,“PLEASE!STOP!”

the visitor willquietly put

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the guitar downon thecoffee table.

“Hank!” my wifewill say,“what’s WRONGwith you?”

“I can’t standit,” I willanswer.

the visitor willthen be at thedoor.they will beleaving.

“I’m sorry,”my wife willsay.

“it’s allright,” the visitorwillrespond with alittle smile.

then he or she will begone.

“you,” my wifewill say, “you liketo hurt people’sfeelings!”

“I hate guitars,”I say, “only awfulpeople playguitars.”

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“we’ve just losta friend!”

“so?” Isayand walkgratefullyup thestairs.

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no man is an island

I use valet parking at the track, it’s only3 bucks more than preferred parking.I’m usually late and Ican leave the machine there at the entrance:one needs only a reasonable and thoughtfulplanto continue to pass through thefire.

the valets see me every day and know I’m aregular, a committed and trustedplayer.but I hold our conversations to aminimummy only acknowledgment of theirskill and alacritybeing the daily $2I slip to the one who drives up in my caras I get ready to leaveusually at the timethey are putting them in the gatefor the lastrace.

now, as of late, the fellowshave been asking meabout the strange cigarettes on the car’sdashand I inform them thatthey are eral dinesh beediesfrom Indiarolled and made from thebetel leaf.

one afternoon

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after having myself an excellent$425 daythe valet who brought the carnodded toward thedash and asked, “hey, mind if I tryone of those?”

“not at all,” I said, “and here, give someto your buddies.”and I handed him apack.

then I took a few minutes to fasten myseat belt, put on my drivingglasses, adjust the side mirror, turnon the radio.and when I looked beforeleavingthere were the 3 or 4 valetssitting on the long yellowbench, each puffing on aneral dinesh beedie.“get high, fuckers!” I yelledand as a groupthey all waved,laughing.

I cut right,seeking the exit, and realized thatthere are some small moments even moreimportant than beating thehorses.

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an animal poem

I’ve got two kittens who are rapidly becomingcats and at nightwe share the same bed—the problem being thatthey are early risers:I am often awakened by paws and noses touching myface.

all they do is run, eat, sleep, shit andplaybut at moments they are quiet and lookat mewith eyesmore beautiful than any human eyes I’veseen.

late at night while I rest and typethey’ll hang aroundsayone on the back of my chair as the otherattacks my toes.we have a natural concern for one another, we eachneed to be assured that the others are safelythere.

suddenly they’llspring into actionrun across the floorrun through the typed sheets laying thereleaving wrinkles and tiny punctures in thepoems.

thenthey’ll leap into the open carton of unanswered mail I’vereceived from my readersand scratch furiously:

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fortunately they (the cats) are housebroken.

I expect now to write any number of cat poemsbecause of themof which this is thefirst.

“my god,” some will say, “all Chinaski writes aboutare cats!”

“my god,” some used to say, “all Chinaski writes aboutare whores!”

but these complainers will still keep buying mybooks: they love the way I irritatethem.

this is the last poemtonight, there’sone glass of wine leftand both of the catsare asleep on my feet.I can feel the gentle weight of themthe touch of their furI am aware of their breathing:good things do happen and I know that asarmies everywhere march out to makewarthe kittensat my feetknow more,aremore,and mean farmorethan that,and that moments like thiscan never beforgotten.

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eulogy

with old cars, especially when you buy them secondhandand drive them for many yearsa love affair is inevitable:you even learn toaccept their littleeccentricities:the leaking water pumpthe failing plugsthe rusted throttle armthe reluctant carburetorthe oily enginethe dead clockthe frozen speedometer andother sundrydefects.you also learn all the tricks tokeep the love affair alive:how to slam the glove compartment so thatit will stay closed,how to slap the headlight with an open palmin order to havelight,how many times to pump the gas pedaland how long to wait beforetouching the starter,and you overlook each burn hole in theupholsteryand each springpoking through the fabric.your car has been in and out ofpolice impounds,has been ticketed for variousmalfunctions:broken wipers,no turn signals, missingbrake light, broken tail lights, bad

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brakes, excessiveexhaust and so forthbut in spite of everythingyou knew you were in good hands,there was never an accident, theold car moved you from one place toanother,faithfully—the poor man’s miracle.so when that last breakdown did occur,when the valves quit,when the tired pistonscracked, or thecrankshaft failed andyou sold it forjunk—you then had to watch it cartedawayhanging therefrom the back of the tow truckwheeled offas if it had nosoul,the bald rear tiresthe cracked back window andthe twisted license platewere the last things yousaw, and ithurtas if some woman you loved verymuchand lived withyear after yearhad diedand now youwould neveragain knowher musicher magicher unbelievablefidelity.

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two writers

been bothered with skincancer lately,been going to the doctorwho burns the stuffoff.

strange waiting roomfull of thick glossymagazines allaboutArt.you know, painting,sculpture, andetc.

about my 3rd or 4thtriphe found out I was awriter.

and he was working ona Doctorate in the Artsor some suchthingand he laid thismassive treatiseon me.

“read it, read it,let me know what youthink.”

“look, doc, youdon’t understand,I write real

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SIMPLEstuff.”

“that’s allright, read it,read it…”

so I took ithome,375 pages,single spaced.

something about howwhen one civilizationtakes over anothercivilizationthey leave their ownart imprinted onit:buildings, statues,shrines and thelike.

that was interestingto anextent.he had done hisresearch, plus muchpersonaltravel.

butit wasn’t exactly my kindof thing.

and that’s what Itold him whenI brought thepapers back.

“but what did you

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think of it?”

“good, yeah, good.”

“what’s that on yourear?”

“I dunno…”

“come on in and I’llburn it off.”

he did that.I smelled burningflesh.it seemed to take a longtime.then he wasfinished.

“when are you goingto give me one ofyour books?” heasked.

“next time.”

I walked out andhad the girlcharge it toMedicare.

“he’s writing betterall the time,”she said.

“so am I,” Isaid.

then I walked outof there

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to my carin the parking lot,trying to stay outof thesun.

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small conversation in theafternoon with John Fante

he said, “I was working in Hollywood when Faulkner wasworking in Hollywood and he wasthe worst: he was too drunk to stand up at theend of the afternoon and so I had to help himinto a taxiday after day after day.

“but when he left Hollywood, I stayed on, and while Ididn’t drink like that maybe I should have, I might havehad the guts then to follow him and get the hell out ofthere.”

I told him, “you write as well asFaulkner.”

“you mean that?” he asked from the hospitalbed, smiling.

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girl on the escalator

as I go to the escalatora young fellow and a lovely young girlare ahead of me.her pants, her blouse are skintight.as we ascendshe rests one foot on thestep above and her behindassumes a fascinating shape.the young man looks allaround.he appears worried.he looks at me.I lookaway.

no, young man, I am not looking,I am not looking at your girl’s behind.don’t worry, I respect her and I respect you.in fact, I respect everything: the flowers that grow, young women,children, all the animals, our precious complicateduniverse, everyone and everything.

I sense that the young man now feelsbetter and I am glad forhim. I know his problem: the girl hasa mother, a father, maybe a sister orbrother, and undoubtedly a bunch ofunfriendly relatives and she likes todance and flirt and she likes togo to the movies and sometimes she talksand chews gum at the same time andshe enjoys really dumb TV shows andshe thinks she’s a budding actress and shedoesn’t always look so good and she has a

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terrible temper and sometimes she almost goescrazy and she can talk for hours on thetelephone and she wants to go toEurope some summer soon and she wants you tobuy her a near-new Mercedes and she’s in love withMel Gibson and her mother is adrunk and her father is a racistand sometimes when she drinks too much shesnores and she’s often cold in bed andshe has a guru, a guy who met Christin the desert in 1978, and she wants tobe a dancer and she’s unemployed and shegets migraine headaches every time sheeats sugar or cheese.

I watch him take herupthe escalator, his armprotectively about herwaist, thinking he’slucky,thinking he’s a real specialguy, thinking thatnobody in the world haswhat he has.

and he’s right, terriblyterribly right, his arm aroundthat warm bucket ofintestine,bladder,kidneys,lungs,salt,sulphur,carbon dioxideandphlegm.

lotsaluck

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one learns

one learns to endure because not to endureturns the world over to themand they are less thanzero.

to endure means to simply gut-it-outand the worse the oddsthe more enjoyable thevictory.

they say you must fight for yourfreedom.I know that.only I didn’t fight the Japanese, the Italians, the Germansor the Russiansfor my freedom.I fought Americans: the parents, the school yards,the bosses, the ladies of the street, the friends, thesystemitself.

there’s no end, of course, to the fight.new difficulties arrive like a train on time.it may no longer be the hangover morning or thefactory assembly linebut treachery, deceit, and false hope take theirplace.I believe we are tested even as wesleep, and often it all gets so deadlywe can only laugh it away.

to endure takes some luck, some knowledge and areasonable sense ofhumor because the cold have gotten colder,the strong stronger,

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the once-bold less-bold andall that’s left for us isto consider the waythe elephant stands silent in the forest waiting to die,the way men fail again and again and again,the way the priest forgets his prayers,the way love can turn to folly,or the way the cold rain soaks Mozart’sgrave. it’s in spite of these andso many other things thatone learns finally how toendure.

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the beginning of a brief love affair

a poem with a head like a duckand camel’s feetbelly of the whalesnake eyesarrow in its bellybuttonspider fingersrabbit skinfrosted like an icebergwith an ugly smileand shining white teethsits in this machineand grins up at meas a young man slams the lidon the trash bin outside.I like this poemas it looks up at me andI don’t always like the poemsas they look up at mefrom this machine.so, goodbye young man,get rid of your trashgo on up the streethang around the taco standtry an adult bookstoreseize your libertythe world may be yours butI’m not finished yet.

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melodies that echo

thinking back to the time whenI was starving to death trying to becomea writer (which was a long time ago)I can still remember some of the popular songsof the day:“a tisket, a tasket, a little yellowbasket”“I can’t give you anything but love,baby”“when the deep purple falls over sleepygarden walls”“the man I love”“anything goes”“body and soul”“I get a kick out ofyou!”

melodies that echothrough the long halls of memoryas youwonder again how Faulkner ever didit down in Mississippi,or Ezraafter they pulled him in a cagethrough the streets ofItaly,or T.S. Eliot as he counted change in histeller’s cage,or Lorca before he was shot down like a dogin the road.

“my heart belongs to Daddy”“by the light of the silvery moon”“let’s do it!”“them there eyes”

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“it’s d’lovely”and“you are my shiningstar.”

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self-inflicted wounds

he talked about Steinbeck and Thomas Wolfe and hewrote like a cross between the two of themand I lived in a hotel on Figueroa Streetclose to the barsand he lived further uptown in a small roomand we both wanted to be writersand we’d meet at the public library, sit on the stonebenches and talk about that.he showed me his short stories and he wrote well, hewrote better than I did, there was a calm and astrength in his work that mine did not have.my stories were jagged, harsh, with self-inflicted wounds.

I showed him all my work but he was more impressed withmy drinking prowess and my worldly attitude

after talking a bit we would go to Clifton’s Cafeteriafor our only meal of the day(for less than a dollar in 1941)yetwe were in great health.we lost jobs, found jobs, lost jobs.mostly we didn’t work, we always envisioned we soonwould be receiving regular checks fromThe New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly andHarper’s.

we ran with a gang of young men who didn’t envisionanything at allbut they had a gallant lawless charmand we drank with them and fought with them andhad a hell of a wild good time.

then just like that he joined the Marine Corps.“I want to prove something to myself” was what he told

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me.

he did: right after boot camp the war came and in 3 monthshe was dead.and I promised myself that some day I would write a novel and thatI would dedicate it to him.

I have now written 5 novels, all dedicated to others.

you know, you were right, Robert Baun, when you once toldme, “Bukowski, about half of what you say isbullshit.”

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racetrack parking lot at the end ofthe day

I watch them push the crippled and the infirmin their wheelchairson to the electric liftwhich carries them up into the long buswhere each chair is locked downand each person has a windowof their own.they are all white-skinned, likepale paint on thin cardboard;most of them are truly old;there are a number of women, a few oldmen, and 3 surprisingly young men2 of whom wear neck braces that gleamin the late afternoon sunand all 3 with arms as thin asrope and hands that resemble clenchedclaws.the caretaker seems very kind, veryunderstanding, he’s amarvelous fat fellow with arectangular head and he wears a broadsmile which is notfalse.the old women are either extremely thinor overweight.most have humped backs and shouldersand wispyvery straightwhite hair.they sit motionless, look straightahead as the electric lift raises themon to the bus.there is no conversation;they appear calm and not embittered

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by their plight. both men and womenare soon loaded on to the waiting bus except forthe last one, a very old man, almost skeletal,with a tiny round head, completely bald, ashining white dot against the late afternoon sky,waving a cane above his head as he ispushed shouting on to the electric lift:“WELL, THEY ROBBED OUR ASSESAGAIN, CLEANED US OUT, WE’RE ABUNCH OF SUCKERS TOTTERING ON THEEDGE OF OUR GRAVES AND WE LET THEM TAKEOUR LAST PENNY AGAIN!”as he speakshe waves the cane above his head andcracks the marvelous fat fellowwho is pushing his chair,cracks the cane against the side ofthe caretaker’s head.it’s a mighty blow andthe attendant staggers, grabshard at the back of thewheelchairas the old man yells: “OH, JERRY,I’M SORRY, I’M SO SORRY, WHAT CAN IDO? WHATCAN I DO?”

Jerry steadies himself, he is not badly hurt.it’s a small concussion but within an hourhe will possess a knot the size of anapricot.

“it’s all right, Sandy, onlyI’ve told you again and again, pleasebe careful with that damnedcane…”

Sandy is pushed on to the electriclift, it rises and he disappears intothe bus’s dark interior.

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then Jerry climbs slowly into the bus, takesthe wheel, starts up, the door closes with a hiss,the bus begins to move to the exit,and on the back of the vehiclein bold white letterson dark blue backgroundI see the words:HARBOR HOME OF LOVE.

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moving toward what?

river down, grapes pressedsummer is overagainand the loversofmost things canno longer find anything tolove.

my 5 proud cats lieabout the houselistening to the hard coldrain

even as autumn is now goneagain

as Xmas and NewYearsthose twin plagueswait patiently againfor me.

my wife nowasleep in the bedroomupstairsher small child’sbodyyearning for thegooddream.

river down, grapes pressedthis time isthe

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sadgreatblade

please pleasepleaselet the inevitablebecome

finally asmeaningfuland asbeautiful

asmy 5 proud catsnow sleeping andno longer listeningtothe hard coldrain.

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if I had failed to make the struggle

there would be no peace, no solace, nowisdom.night would follow nightlike a string of antscome to carry youoff.in a world cluttered with the falselyfamousthere would be noescape.you would face a hardimpossibility whilechewing on your toastor cleaning yourteethor waiting for theresultof a photo finishor a cancercheckup.

there would be no voice tolisten to,no acceptablegod.even the laughter you onceenjoyed, they would havestripped even that fromyouand left youto be worn downfinallylike water uponstone.

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in the beginning youthfought themoff;middle age was there to contemplate thewounds;and nowmaturityis here to recorda simplevictory.

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wine pulse

this is another poem about 2 a.m. and how I’m still at themachine listening to the radio and smoking a goodcigar.hell, I don’t know, sometimes I feel just like Van Gogh or Faulkneror,say, Stravinsky, as I sip wine and typeand smoke and there’s no magic as gentle as this.some critics say I write the same things over and over.well, sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, but when I do thereason is that it feels so right, it’s like making love andif you knew how good it felt you would forgive mebecause we both know how fickle happiness can be.so I play the fool and say again thatit’s 2 a.m.and that I amCézanneChopinCélineChinaskiembracing everything:the sweep of cigar smokeanother glass of winethe beautiful young girlsthe criminals and the killersthe lonely madthe factory workers,this machine here,the radio playing,I repeat it all againand I’ll repeat it all foreveruntil the magic that happens to mehappens to you.

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About the Author

CHARLES BUKOWSKI is one of America’s best-known contemporarywriters of poetry and prose, and, many would claim, its most influentialand imitated poet. He was born in Andernach, Germany, to an Americansoldier father and a German mother in 1920, and brought to the UnitedStates at the age of three. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived therefor fifty years. He published his first story in 1944 when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in SanPedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortlyafter completing his last novel, Pulp (1994).

During his lifetime he published more than forty-five books of poetryand prose, including the novels Post Office (1971), Factotum (1975), Women(1978), Ham on Rye (1982), and Hollywood (1989). Among his most recentbooks are the posthumous editions of What Matters Most Is How WellYou Walk Through the Fire (1999), Open All Night: New Poems (2000),Beerspit Night and Cursing: The Correspondence of Charles Bukowski andSheri Martinelli (2001), and Night Torn Mad with Footsteps: New Poems(2001).

All of his books have now been published in translation in more thana dozen languages and his worldwide popularity remains undiminished.In the years to come Ecco will publish additional volumes of previouslyuncollected poetry and letters.

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BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (1969)Post Office (1971)Mockingbird Wish Me Luck (1972)South of No North (1973)Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973 (1974)Factotum (1975)Love Is a Dog from Hell: Poems 1974-1977 (1977)Women (1978)You Kissed Lilly (1978)Play the piano drunk Like a percussion Instrument Until the fingers begin to bleeda bit (1979)Shakespeare Never Did This (1979)Dangling in the Tournefortia (1981)Ham on Rye (1982)Bring Me Your Love (1983)Hot Water Music (1983)There’s No Business (1984)War All the Time: Poems 1981-1984 (1984)You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense (1986)The Movie: “Barfly” (1987)The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems 1946-1966 (1988)Hollywood (1989)Septuagenarian Stew: Stories & Poems (1990)The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992)Screams from the Balcony: Selected Letters 1960-1970 (Volume 1) (1993)Pulp (1994)Living on Luck: Selected Letters 1960s-1970s (Volume 2) (1995)Betting on the Muse: Poems & Stories (1996)Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems (1997)The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship (1998)Reach for the Sun: Selected Letters 1978-1994 (Volume 3) (1999)What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire: New Poems (1999)Open All Night: New Poems (2000)Beerspit Night and Cursing: The Correspondence of Charles Bukowski & SheriMartinelli (2001)The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps: New Poems (2001)Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way: New Poems (2002)

Copyright

THE NIGHT TORN MAD WITH FOOTSTEPS. Copyright © 2001 by Linda LeeBukowski. All rights reserved under International and Pan-AmericanCopyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have beengranted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read thetext of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced,transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored inor introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in anyform or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known orhereinafter invented, without the express written permission ofHarperCollins e-books.

Adobe Acrobat eBook Reader July 2007ISBN 978-0-06-147205-3

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