early morning, spread
shredding to discourage
weed growth
and
as I do in my writing:
use plenty of
manure.
and thank you
for locating me there at
5124 DeLongpre Avenue
somewhere between
alcoholism and
madness.
together we
laid down the gauntlet
and there are takers
even at this late date
still to be
found
as the fire sings
through the
trees.
air and light and time and space
“—you know, I’ve either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I’m going to have a place and the time to
create.”
no baby, if you’re going to create
you’re going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you’re on
welfare,
you’re going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you’re going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don’t create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.
the eagle of the heart—
what will they be writing about 2,000 years from
now
if they are
here?
now
I drink cabernet sauvignon while
listening to
Bach: it’s
most curious: this
continuing death
this
continuing life
as
I look at this hand
holding a cigarette
I feel as if
I have been here
forever.
now
troops with bayonets
sack
the town below.
my dog, Tony, smiles at
me.
it is well
to feel good
for no reason;
or
with a limited
choice to
choose
anyhow;
or with a little love,
not to buckle to
hatred.
faith, brother, not in the
gods
but in
yourself:
don’t ask,
tell.
I tell you
such fine
music
waits
in the
shadows
of
hell.
bright red car
I try to avoid speed duels on the freeway but the curious thing
is
that all my speeding tickets are when I am quietly driving along on
my
own.
when I am in a high speed duel, darting in and out of lanes
at near 100 m.p.h.
the police are never
about.
when I get tagged for speeding it is for cruising along,
day-dreaming, at a mere 70
m.p.h.
I received 3 such nonsensical tickets in 3 weeks so
I laid low for some time—2 years, in fact, but today
out there
there was a fellow in a bright red car, I have no idea what
model or kind
and I have no idea of how it all started but I believe that
I started it:
I was in the fast lane going about 70
and I caught the flash of bright red in my rear view and
as he swung out to pass me on the right
he was doing 75
and there was time for him to pass
then cut into the fast lane ahead of me
but something made me hit the throttle and cut him
off
locking him in behind an old lady with a CHRIST
SAVES bumper sticker.
this seemed to piss him no end
and next I knew he had swung over on my bumper,
so close that his windshield and my taillights
seemed one.
this pissed me no end and I was being blocked by a
green Volks directly ahead
but I cut right through an opening and shot
ahead.
bright red went wild, spotted the far lane open,
roared over and gunned it
along.
after that, it was just me and bright red
jockeying for spots.
he would garner a lead, then with a crazy gamble
of lane change I would regain the
lead.
during this duel my destination was forgotten and I’m sure his was
too.
watching him, I couldn’t help but admire his driving
skill; he took a few more chances than I
but I had a little bit the better machine
so it
just about evened out.
then
suddenly
we were alone: a freak break in the traffic
had set us free together
and we really opened
up.
he had a short lead but my machine slowly gained; I
inched up near him,
then I was at his side and I couldn’t help but
look over.
he was a young Japanese-American, maybe 18, 19
and I looked at him and
laughed.
I saw him check me out.
he saw a 70 year old white man
with a face like
Frankenstein.
the young man took his foot off the throttle and
dropped back.
I let him go.
I turned the radio
on.
I was 18 miles past my destination but it
didn’t matter.
it was a beautiful sunny day.
moving toward the 21st century
it was a New Year’s Eve party at my place
I think.
I was standing holding a drink when
this slender young fellow walked up
he was a bit drunk he said
“Hank, I met a woman who said
she was married to you for 2
years.”
“really?
what was her
name?”
“Lola
Edwards.”
“never heard of
her.”
“ah, come on, man, she
said…”
“don’t know her,
baby…”
in fact I didn’t know who
he was…
I drained my drink walked to the kitchen
poured a refill
I looked around yes, I was at my place
I recognized the
kitchen.
another
Happy New Year.
Jesus.
I walked out to face the
people.
the lady and the mountain lion
it was hardly a wilderne
ss area
but it was countryside
and there had been a paucity of
rainfall—also some housing
construction on the
hillsides.
small game was dying
out.
the coyotes were the first of
the famished to
arrive
looking for
chickens
cats
anything.
in fact, a group attacked
a man on horseback
tearing his arm
but he
escaped.
then
in a park
there was the lady who
left her car to
go to the public
restroom.
she had closed the stall
door
when she heard a
soft
sound,
the stealth of
padded
feet.
then
as she sat there
the mountain lion stuck
his head under the
stall door.
a truly beautiful
animal.
then
the head withdrew, the cat
knocked over a trash can, circled,
emitted a slow
growl.
the lady climbed up
on the toilet
then grasped an overhead
pipe
and
swung herself completely up
(fear creates abnormal
acts) and sat where
she could watch
the cat.
at once
the cat put his
paws up
on the wash basin
stuck his head in
there
and lapped at a dripping
spigot.
then
he sank
low upon the floor
crouched
facing the doorway
then
zing
was gone
out of there.
then
at last
the lady began
screaming.
when the people
arrived
the cat was nowhere to be
seen.
the story made the
newspapers and the television
stations.
the story that won’t be told is
that the lady
will never go to the bathroom
again
without thinking of a
mountain
lion.
a truly beautiful
animal.
a laugh a minute
come on, let’s go see him, this old guy is a
kick in the ass, 50 years old, he sits around
in his shorts and underwear
drinking wine out of this chipped white
cup.
he sits with the shades pulled down and
he’s never owned a tv set.
the only time he goes out is for more
wine
or to the racetrack in his baby blue
’58 Comet.
you get there and he’s distraught, some woman
has always left forever and
he pretends to play it with bravado but
his little slit eyes are filled with
pain.
he’ll pour drinks all around, he just gulps
that crap down and then sometimes he’ll
get up and puke.
it’s really something. you
can hear him for blocks.
then he’ll come out and pour another
drink.
he’ll go on and on drinking
and then once in a while he’ll say something
crazy like, “anything 3 dogs can do, 4 dogs
can do better!”
other things too.
or he’ll smash a glass or a bottle against
the wall.
he worked as an orderly in a
hospital for 15 years
then quit.
he never sleeps at night.
and for a guy that ugly
I don’t see how he gets all his
women.
and he’s jealous.
just look at one of his women
and he’ll swing on you.
then he gets drunk and tells crazy
stories and sings.
and guess what? he writes
poetry.
come on, let’s go see him, this old guy
is a kick in the
ass!
hello, Hamsun
after two-and-one-half bottles
that have not strengthened my saddened
heart
walking from this drunken
darkness
toward the bedroom
thinking of Hamsun who
ate his own flesh to
gain time to
write
I trundle into the other
room
an old
man
a hellfish in the night
swimming upward
sideways
down.
death is smoking my cigars
you know: I’m drunk once again
here
listening to Tchaikovsky
on the radio.
Jesus, I heard him 47 years
ago
when I was a starving writer
and here he is
again
and now I am a minor success as
a writer
and death is walking
up and down
this room
smoking my cigars
taking hits of my
wine
as Tchaik is working away
at the Pathétique,
it’s been some journey
and any luck I’ve had was
because I rolled the dice
right:
I starved for my art, I starved to
gain 5 god-damned minutes, 5 hours,
5 days—
I just wanted to get the word
down;
fame, money, didn’t matter:
I wanted the word down
and they wanted me at a punch press,
a factory assembly line
they wanted me to be a stock boy in a
department store.
well, death says, as he walks by,
I’m going to get you anyhow
no matter what you’ve been:
writer, cab-driver, pimp, butcher,
sky-diver, I’m going to get
you…
o.k. baby, I tell him.
we drink together now
as one a.m. slides to 2
a.m. and
only he knows the
moment, but I worked a con
on him: I got my
5 god-damned minutes
and much
more.
hock shops
were always all right with me
because when I tried to sell something in the street
there were no takers.
of course, the shops offered far less than real value;
they had to profit on the
resale,
but at least, they were
there.
my favorite shop was a place in Los Angeles—
this fellow would lead me to a booth where
he would gather a black curtain all around
us,
it slid on little rings
and then
we would be enclosed.
and it always went like
this:
“show me,” he would
say.
I would place the item on the table under
the very strong
light.
/>
he would examine the item, then look at me
for some time.
“I can’t give you very much for
this.”
another pause, then he would name his
price.
the offer was always more than I
expected.
“I’ll take $10,” I would name a
higher price.
“no,” he would answer, “in fact…”
and then he would mention a lower price
than his original
offer.
at times I would attempt to joke with
him:
“if I stay here long enough, I’ll be
paying you…”
he wouldn’t smile.