New Poems Book Three (5 page)

I don’t know where they come from,

the veterans’ home probably.

they’re old, mostly bald, tanned, macho but

somehow sexless.

the sex drive is no longer a part

of the equation as

they sit at the track in the sun,

arguing about their bets, talking and

laughing.

sometimes between races they

discuss sports: which is the best?

the best baseball team? the best

hockey team? the best basketball or

football team? amateurs and

professionals are discussed, and then

who’s the best player at each

position?

they often become angry and shout

at one another.

they wear tired clothing, greys and

browns, they wear heavy shoes and

each sports a large wristwatch,

and while other men only

slightly younger than themselves still must

fight for survival

in the arena of daily existence

they sit about and argue

whether the screen pass is still

an effective offensive weapon in professional

football.

they bet, first gathering in front of the

window, arguing, making last minute

adjustments, then one of them bets for

all of them.

after the races end each

evening they leave,

a wavering line,

some stumbling a bit as if

they were tripping over their own

feet.

now they look worn and done,

defeated.

“shit, this god-damned place, catch

me here again and you can belt-whip me

until I sing Dixie!”

“yeah, sure, Marty, you’ll be back tomorrow.”

“naw. fuck this place!”

the next afternoon they are all back,

somehow they’ve found a small supply of

new money—they will pool it and their brains

and do it all over again today.

they are suddenly serious, studying their

Racing Forms
.

they bet the first two races and things go

wrong. the conversation jumps angrily from

horses to sports and the screaming

begins:

“
YEAH, YOU KNOW WHAT? I’LL BET YOU

NEVER HEARD OF CRAZYLEGS

HIRSCH
!”

“
I SAW HIM, MAN! I SAW HIM PLAY
!”

“
YEAH? WELL, I SAW JIM THORPE
!”

“
YEAH? YOU SAW JIM THORPE JUST LIKE YOU

GOT LAID LAST NIGHT
!”

“
YEAH, I NOTICE
YOU
CAN HARDLY SIT DOWN TODAY
!

DID YOU GET LAID LAST NIGHT
?”

“I’LL KNOCK YOUR GOD-DAMNED HEAD OFF
!”

the combat never evolves and that’s all well

and good, for they are fine fellows, we

need them like we need the Sierra Madre mountains

choking behind us in the smog, like we need

Willie Shoemaker legging it up on just

one more winner, and we need them to help us

forget all the things that haven’t worked out for us

in the past, especially all the bad bets

what counts is to endure, what counts

is not to remember that the whole western slope

of the U.S.A. is going to fall into the Pacific Ocean

one day soon

and that there was never any real need to cultivate your

garden or to send your daughter to

Radcliffe.

I like to watch those fellows, they are

like a Broadway musical, only it’s not

Guys and Dolls
it’s
Guys and Guys
, they

are all fine fellows, the wavering line of

them, and even the most beautiful woman in the

world would mean nothing to them

because they have learned the hard way

that that kind of thing only

exists for other people, and there’s

just no use wondering how things got that way or

why.

I watch the best Broadway musical

every day from the best seat in the

house and I am the author and the critic and the

audience and sometimes I’m on stage

too.

if only there were more magic people

to help us get through

this strange life.

surprisingly there are a few.

the problem being that often

their magic doesn’t hold up

for long

mainly

because they begin to

think it’s because

they are special

when really

it’s almost an off-hand thing

like some damned crazy unearned

gift.

and when the magic people

begin to misuse their

prowess

begin to use it

in the wrong ways

then

it

vanishes

and

that’s a

LAW

and

it’s one of the most

unalterable laws

of the gods and the

universe

and there is

nothing sadder

or more

frightening

than the once-gifted ones

still trying to work their

magic

for the

crowd

which never offers,

but only

accepts,

mercy.

now we must select with extreme caution our lovers,

water, foodstuffs and even our invisible

air.

it is a very careful time.

our politicians consider ways to dismantle

the worldwide stockpile of bombs

all too late, of course, since it only takes one fool to

push one button

somewhere.

we draw close together, frightened, searching for a return

to a safe

womb.

but we must have been wrong for too long. the asylums overflow and spill their

detritus into our streets

and where our leaders once spoke wisely

they now speak gibberish—

they stop, then continue, look about, addled,

substituting insane slogans for real

speech.

this is the price we now pay: we can’t go

back, we can’t go forward and we hang helpless, nailed to a

world

of our own

making.

Jane, who has been dead for 31 years,

never could have

imagined that I would write a screenplay of our drinking

days together

and

that it would be made into a movie

and

that a beautiful movie star would play her

part.

I can hear Jane now: “A beautiful movie star? oh,

for Christ’s sake!”

Jane, that’s show biz, so go back to sleep, dear, because

no matter how hard they tried they

just
couldn’t
find anybody exactly like

you.

and neither can

I.

bone-dead sorrows

like starfish washed ashore.

we demand that our leaders possess

a certain clever charm, a certain mild wisdom, but no madness,

at least not madness at its

best.

maybe the energy is just not there anymore, maybe

not only is the air polluted, maybe the brain has been

poisoned, maybe the human spirit has been

diluted down to a dim imitation of

itself

until anybody who appears half-right half-the-time is

almost always accepted as our new

hero-leader.

it is more and more difficult—no, it’s just damned

impossible—to accept and admire those who are

deemed great in our time.

they all

are suspect

they all seem to lack:

nobility

originality

intelligence

honesty

and especially that which is most needed:

a simple, good heart.

just bones and more bones

bleaching in the sun.

they say that nothing is wasted:

either that

or

it all is.

got this letter

where she wrote:

I’m not going to do the obvious and

throw in a photo

but don’t worry

I’ve got a
BODY

and the face

is not so bad

either.

anyhow, I really admire

your books although

I just discovered them

recently.

you see I am

only 18 years old but

I’d like to be your

secretary

kind of keep house for you

answer the phone

all that

and just room and board

would do—

no salary

and

I wouldn’t ask you

for sex

unless you asked me

first …

you can be sure

I tossed that letter

into the

trash can

right away.

Sandra used to phone me almost

nightly.

“what are you doing?”

“nothing.”

“you mean, you aren’t
with

anybody yet?”

“no.”

“why not?”

“who needs it?”

(I hang up)

they simply never understand,

do they,

that sometimes solitude is

one of the most beautiful things

on earth?

(then the phone rings again,

a few nights later)

“well, are you
with
anybody yet?”

“no.”

“why don’t you ask me if I’m

with somebody?”

“are you with somebody?”

“not now, but I’ve been going out

with Tim.”

“Tim’s a good guy, tell him

I said ‘hello’.”

(I hang up)

I found my nights to be perfectly

pleasant and the day as pleasant

too.

I typed and laughed my ass

off

then strapped it back on and

typed some

more.

one night

while I was

typing and

laughing my ass off

I heard high heels

coming

up the walk.

then there was only silence

so I took a hit of my

drink and typed

some more.

suddenly there was a

crash and

the breaking of

glass

and

a large rock

rolled

across the rug

and stopped

just next to

where I was

sitting.

I heard high heels

running back

down the walk,

then

the sound

of a car

starting,

then

driving off with

a

roar.

a pane of glass was

missing

from the

front door.

Sandra phoned

two nights later.

“how are you doing?”

“fine.”

“why don’t you ask me

how
I’m

doing?”

“o.k., all right, how

are
you

doing?”

“YOU ROTTEN SON OF

A BITCH
!” she

screamed and

hung up.

however

this time

there was somebody

there with me.

“who was that?”

she asked.

“a voice from the

past.”

“oh, well,

may we continue with

our

interview?

what is the principal

inspiration for your

poetry?”

“fucking.”

“
what
?”

“
FUCKING
,” I repeated

loudly,

then walked over

and

refilled her shaking

drink.

my father liked to pretend he

would some day be wealthy,

he always voted Republican

and he told me that

if I worked hard

every day of my life that

I would be amply

rewarded.

on those occasions

when my father
had
a

job he worked hard, he

worked so hard that nobody

could stand him.

“what’s the matter with that

man? is he crazy?”

my father was a sweating

red-faced

angry

man

and it seemed that the

harder he tried

the poorer he

became.

his blood pressure

rose

and his heartbeat was

irregular.

he smoked Camels and

Pall Malls and

half-full packs were scattered

everywhere.

he was asleep by

8 p.m. and up at

5 a.m. and

he tended to scream at and

beat his wife and

child.

he died early.

and after his funeral

I sat in the bedroom of his empty

house

smoking his last pack of

Pall Malls.

he believed that there was

only one formula, one way:

his.

it wasn’t shameful for him to

die, it was his unbending attitude

toward life

that bothered me

and I spoke to him

about it once

and told him

that life was just

rather sad and

empty

and all we could hope

for

was to enjoy a few moments

of peace and quiet

amidst the

turmoil.

“you just sit on your

ass,” he replied, “you and

your mouth!

well,
I
say the answer is

‘a good day’s

work for a good day’s

pay!’”

come to think of it,

if I was unhappy

it wasn’t completely

my father’s fault

and after I smoked the last

Pall Mall cigarette

in that last pack

I threw it away

and then

he too was finally

gone

for

good.