Love is a Dog from Hell (20 page)

 

the vultures at the zoo

(all 3 of them)

sit very quietly in their

caged tree

and below

on the ground

are chunks of rotting meat.

the vultures are over-full.

our taxes have fed them

well.

 

we move on to the next

cage.

a man is in there

sitting on the ground

eating

his own shit.

I recognize him as

our former mailman.

his favorite expression

had been:

“have a beautiful day.”

 

that day, I did.

 

eating cold plums in bed

she told me about the German

who owned everything on the block

except the custom drapery shop

and he tried to buy

the custom drapery shop

but the girls said, no.

the German had the best grocery store in

Pasadena, his meats were high

but worth the price

and his vegetables and produce were

very cheap and

he also sold flowers. people came

from all over Pasadena to go to his

store

but he wanted to buy the custom drapery shop

and the girls kept saying, no.

one night somebody was seen running

out the back door of the drapery shop

and there was a fire

and almost everything was destroyed—

they’d had a tremendous inventory,

they tried to save what was left

had a fire sale

but it didn’t work

they had to sell, finally,

and then the German owned the drapery shop

but it just sits there, vacant,

the German’s wife tried to make a go of it

she tried to sell little baskets and things

but it didn’t work.

 

we finished the plums.

“that was a sad story,” I told her.

then she bent down and began sucking me off.

the windows were open and you could hear me

hollering all over the neighborhood

at 5:30 in the evening.

 

the girls are coming home in their cars

and I sit by the window and

watch.

 

there’s a girl in a red dress

driving a white car

there’s a girl in a blue dress

driving a blue car.

there’s a girl in a pink dress

driving a red car.

 

as the girl in the red dress

gets out of the white car

I look at her legs

 

as the girl in the blue dress

gets out of the blue car

I look at her legs

as the girl in the pink dress

gets out of the red car

I look at her legs.

 

the girl in the red dress

who got out of the white car

had the best legs

 

the girl in the pink dress

who got out of the red car

had average legs

 

but I keep remembering the girl in the blue dress

who got out of the blue car

 

I saw her panties

you don’t know how exciting life can get

around here

at 5:35 p.m.

 

which reminds me

I shacked with Jane for 7 years

she was a drunk

I loved her

 

my parents hated her

I hated my parents

we made a nice

foursome

 

one day we went on a picnic

together

up in the hills

and we played cards and drank beer and

ate potato salad

 

they treated her as if she were a living person

at last

 

everybody laughed

I didn’t laugh.

later at my place

over the whiskey

I said to her,

I don’t like them

but it’s good they treated you

nice.

 

you damn fool, she said,

don’t you see?

 

see what?

 

they kept looking at my beer-belly,

they think I’m pregnant.

 

oh, I said, well here’s to our beautiful

child.

 

here’s to our beautiful child,

she said.

 

we drank them down.

 

in the hospitals I’ve been in

you see the crosses on the walls

with the thin palm leaves behind them

yellowed and browned

 

it is the signal to accept the inevitable

 

but what really hurts

are the bedpans

hard under your ass

you’re dying

and you’re supposed to sit up on this

impossible thing

and urinate and

defecate

 

while in the bed

next to yours

a family of 5 brings good cheer

to an incurable

heart-case

cancer-case

or a case of general rot.

 

the bedpan is a merciless rock

a horrible mockery

because nobody wants to drag your failing body

to the crapper and back.

 

you’d drag it

but they’ve got the bars up:

you’re in your crib

your tiny death-crib

and when the nurse comes back

an hour and a half later

and there’s nothing in the bedpan

she gives you a most

intemperate look

 

as if when nearing death

one should be able to do

the common common things

again and again.

 

but if you think that’s bad

just relax

and let it go

all of it

into the sheets

 

then you’ll hear it

not only from the nurse

but from

all the other patients…

 

the hardest part of dying

is that they expect you

to go out

like a rocket shot into the

night sky.

 

sometimes that can be done

 

but when you need the bullet and the gun

you’ll look up

and find

that the wires above your head

connected to the button

years ago

have been cut

snipped

eliminated

been

made

useless as

the bedpan.

 

red face

Texas

and age

he’s at an L.A.

racetrack

been talking to

a group of folks.

it’s the 4th race

and he’s ready to

leave:

“well, goodbye,

folks and God bless,

see you around

tomorrow…”

 

“nice fellow.”

“yeh.”

 

he’s going to the

parking lot to

get into a 12 year

old car

 

from there he’ll

drive to a roominghouse

 

his room will neither

have a toilet nor a

bath

 

his room will have

one window with a

torn paper shade

and outside will be

a crumbling cement wall

spray-can graffiti courtesy

of a Chicano youth gang

 

he’ll take off his

shoes and

get on the bed

 

it will be dark

but he won’t turn

on the light

 

he’s got nothing

to do.

 

all the way from Mexico

straight from the fields

to 14 wins

13 by k.o.

he was ranked #3

and in a tune-up fight

he was k.o’d by an unranked

black fighter who hadn’t fought

in 2 years.

 

all the way from Mexico

straight from the fields

the drink and the women had gotten

to him.

in the rematch he was k.o’d again

and suspended for 6 months.

 

all that way

for the bottle and 2 cases of

v.d.

 

he came back in a year

swearing he was clean, he’d

learned.

and he earned a draw with the

9th ranked in his division.

 

he came back for the rematch

and the fight was stopped in

the 3rd round because he

couldn’t protect

himself.

 

and he went all the way back

to Mexico

straight to the fields.

it takes a damned good poet

like me

to handle drink and women

evade v.d.

write about failures

like him

and hold my ranking in the

top 10:

all the way from Germany

straight from the factories

among beerbottles

and the ringing of the

phone.

 

are more beautiful than

movie stars

and they lounge on the

lawn

sunbathing

and one sits in a short

dress and high

heels, legs crossed

exposing miraculous

thighs.

she has a bandanna

on her head

and smokes a

long cigarette.

traffic slows

almost stops.

 

the girls ignore

the traffic.

they are half

asleep in the afternoon

they are whores

they are whores without

souls

and they are magic

because they lie

about nothing.

 

I get in my car

wait for traffic to

clear,

drive across the street

to the green hotel

to my favorite:

she is

sun-bathing on the

lawn nearest the

curb.

 

“hello,” I say.

she turns eyes like

imitation diamonds

up at me.

her face has no

expression.

 

I drop my latest

book of poems

out the car

window.

it falls

by her side.

 

I shift into

low,

drive off.

 

there’ll be some

laughs

tonight.