Come On In (14 page)

sitting here on a boiling hot night while

drinking a bottle of cabernet sauvignon

after winning $232 at the track.

there’s not much I can tell you except

if it weren’t for my bad right leg

I don’t feel much different than I did

30 or 40 years ago (except that

now I have more money and should be able

to afford a decent

burial). also,

I drive better automobiles and have

stopped carrying a

switchblade.

I am still looking for a hero, a role model,

but can’t find one.

I am no more tolerant of Humanity

than I ever was.

I am not bored with myself and find

that I am the only one I can

turn to in time of

crisis.

I’ve been ready to die for decades and

I’ve been practicing, polishing up

for that end

but it’s very

hot tonight

and I can think of little but

this fine cabernet,

that’s gift enough for me.

sometimes I can’t

believe I’ve come this far,

this has to be some kind of goddamned

miracle!

just another old guy

blinking at the forces,

smiling a little,

as the cities tremble and the left

hand rises,

clutching

something

real. 

Lord, boys,

it’s been a long time since we

sang a happy tune from

deep in the lungs.

somehow we’ve allowed them

to shut off our air, our water, our

electricity, our joy. 

we’ve become like them: stilted, exact,

graven,

secretly bitter, smitten by

what’s small. 

Lord, boys,

we’ve not been kind enough to hippies and

harpies, to sots and slatterns,

to our brothers and

sisters. 

Lord, boys,

where has the heroic self

gone?

it’s gone into hiding, a scattered cat

in a hailstorm! 

have we come to this?

have we really come to

this? 

as I open my mouth

to sing

a happy tune from

deep in the lungs

a black fly

circles and swoops

in.

Lord!

what an old poem this is

from an old guy. 

you’ve heard it many times

before: 

me sitting here

sotted

again.

ashtray full.

bottles about.

poems scattered on the

floor. 

as night creeps toward dawn

I make

more and more typing

errors and 

the bars closed long

ago. 

even the crickets are

asleep. 

Li Po must have

experienced all these things

too. 

hello, Li Po, you

juicehead, the world is still

full of

rancor and

regret. 

you knew what to do

about that:

set fire to the

poems and then

sail them down the river

as the Emperor wept at such

waste 

(but you and I

know that waste is a

natural part of the

way). 

and the way is

now

and

fortunately

I have one drink

left

there on the floor

among the

poems

as

out of smokes

I poke into the

ashtray

light a butt

burn my nose

singe my

eyebrows 

then tap out

another line of

boozy poesy 

as I hear a voice

rising from the

neighborhood:

“FUCK YOU AND THAT

MACHINE!” 

ah, they’ve been very

patient: it’s 3:45

a.m. 

I will now stop

typing and I will

savor this last

drink

because while

I have defeated death

at least

10,000 times 

the L.A. police department

is another

matter. 

I’m older but I don’t mind,

yet.

I feel like a tank

rolling over and through all

the accumulated

crap.

more and more of it

piles up

as time passes,

physical and spiritual

crap.

we’ve even polluted

the stratosphere with

space junk,

with crap,

it floats around up

there. 

I remember my grandmother.

she was
old
.

a mound of useless flesh

with dead eyes,

and a mind stuffed with,

well, crap. 

it made me tired and

discouraged to look

at her. 

me, I’m still rare meat,

I’ll make a good meal,

the black dogs of death trail me,

nip at my heels.

tiresome hounds, they never

quit. 

when they bring me down

they’ll have something

worthy

of their efforts.

young maidens in far-off

countries will

weep,

and rightfully so. 

and hell for me will be something interesting and

new. 

around 2 a.m.

in my small room

after turning off the poem

machine

for now

I continue to light

cigarettes and listen to

Beethoven on the

radio.

I listen with a

strange and lazy

aplomb,

knowing there’s still a poem

or two left to write, and

I feel damn

fine, at long

last,

as once again I

admire the verve and gamble

of this composer

now dead for over 100

years,

who’s younger and wilder

than you are

than I am. 

the centuries are sprinkled

with rare magic

with divine creatures

who help us get past the common

and

extraordinary ills

that beset us.

I light the next to last

cigarette

remember all the 2 a.m.’s

of my past,

put out of the bars

at closing time,

put out on the streets

(a ragged band of

solitary lonely

humans

we were)

each walking home

alone. 

this is much better: living

where I now

live

and listening to

the reassurance

the kindness

of this unexpected

SYMPHONY OF TRIUMPH:

a new life. 

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,

don’t swim in the same slough.

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself

and

stay out of the clutches of mediocrity. 

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,

change your tone and shape so often that they can

never

categorize you. 

reinvigorate yourself and

accept what is

but only on the terms that you have invented

and reinvented.

be self-taught. 

and reinvent your life because you must;

it is your life and

its history

and the present

belong only to

you. 

when you get as old as I am you can’t help thinking

about death; you know it’s getting closer with every tick of

your watch: an old fart like me can go in a second,

have a stroke, or cancer, or

etc.

etc. 

while the young think about locating a piece of ass

the old think about …
death
.

still,

age makes you appreciate small things:

like, say, you look at a grapefruit like you never

quite looked at one before, or at a bridge, or at a dog or even

just at the sidewalk, you realize you’ve never really seen them clearly

before.

and all the other things around you suddenly seem … new. 

the world is now a flower, though sometimes an ugly

one. 

and driving the boulevards, you watch people in their

cars and you think: each of them must finally

die.

it’s strange, isn’t it, that each of them must finally die? 

then (I often get lucky) I will forget about death. I will

forget that I am … old.

I will feel 45 again. (I’ve always felt 45, even when

I was 16.) 

as somewhere somebody waters a small potted plant,

as a plane crashes with a fierce explosion into a mountain,

as deep in the sea strange creatures move,

the poet remains manacled to his helpless

self. 

now I watch other men fight

for money and glory

on television

while I sit on an old couch

in the night

a wife and 5 or 6 cats

nearby. 

now I sit and watch other men fight

for money and glory. 

hell,

I never fought for money. 

maybe I should have

but I was never that good

at it—

only sometimes

brave.

is it too late for a comeback?

a comeback from where? 

now I sit and watch other men fight

for money and glory. 

I sit with a soda and 3 fig bars

as the world curls and goes up in

flame around

me. 

ample

consternation,

plentiful

pain 

restless days

and

sleepless

nights 

always fighting

with all your

heart and soul

so as not

to fail at

living. 

who could ask

for anything

more? 

half-past nowhere

alone

in the crumbling

tower of myself 

stumbling in this the

darkest

hour 

the last gamble has been

lost 

as I

reach

for 

bone

silence. 

blue fish, the blue night, a blue knife—

everything is blue.

and my cats are blue: blue fur, blue claws,

blue whiskers, blue eyes. 

my bed lamp shines

blue.

inside, my blue heart pumps blue blood. 

my fingernails, my toenails are

blue 

and around my bed floats a

blue ghost. 

even the taste inside my mouth is

blue. 

and I am alone and dying and

blue. 

the drifting of the mind.

the slow loss, the leaking away.

one’s demise is not very interesting.

from my bed I watch 3 birds through the east window:

one coal black, one dark brown, the

other yellow.

as night falls I watch the red lights on the bridge blink on and off.

I am stretched out in bed with the covers up to my chin.

I have no idea who won at the racetrack today.

I must go back into the hospital tomorrow.

why me?

why not? 

unaccountably we are alone

forever alone

and it was meant to be

that way,

it was never meant

to be any other way—

and when the death struggle

begins

the last thing I wish to see

is

a ring of human faces

hovering over me—

better just my old friends,

the walls of my self,

let only them be there. 

I have been alone but seldom

lonely.

I have satisfied my thirst

at the well

of my self

and that wine was good,

the best I ever had,

and tonight

sitting

staring into the dark

I now finally understand

the dark and the

light and everything

in between. 

peace of mind and heart

arrives

when we accept what

is:

having been

born into this

strange life

we must accept

the wasted gamble of our

days

and take some satisfaction in

the pleasure of

leaving it all

behind.

cry not for me.

grieve not for me. 

read

what I’ve written

then

forget it

all. 

drink from the well

of your self

and begin

again.