What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire (21 page)

we ask for no mercy and no

miracles;

(if only there were fewer flies around

as we ponder our imbecilities and losses!)

I light a cigar, lean back

remember

dead friends dead days dead loves;

so much has gone by for most of us,

even the young, especially the young

for they have lost the beginning and have

the rest of the way to go;

but isn't it strange, all I can think of now are

cucumbers, oranges, junk yards, the

old Lincoln Heights jail and

the lost loves that went so hard

and almost brought us to the edge,

the faces now without features,

the love beds forgotten.

the mind is kind: it retains the

important things:

cucumbers

oranges

junk yards

jails.

I have killed a fly

that tiny piece of life

dead like dead love.

there used to be over 100 of us in that big room

in that jail

I was in there many

times.

you slept on the floor

men stepped on your face on the way to piss.

always a shortage of cigarettes.

names called out during the night

(the few lucky ones who were bailed out)

never you.

we asked for no mercy or miracles

and we ask for none

now;

we paid our way, laugh if you will,

we walked the only paths there were to walk.

and when love came to us twice

and lied to us twice

we decided to never love again

that was fair

fair to us

and fair to love itself.

we ask for no mercy or no

miracles;

we are strong enough to live

and to die and to

kill flies,

attend the boxing matches, go to the racetrack,

live on luck and skill,

get alone, get alone often,

and if you can't sleep alone

be careful of the words you speak in your sleep; and

ask for no mercy

no miracles;

and don't forget:

time is meant to be wasted,

love fails

and death is useless.

the headless dog snaps,

the half melon drips, there's blood under the

fingernails,

the yawweed cries and

Tacitus hops like a frog.

destitution everywhere,

the manacled in rusted armor walk through

crippled dreams,

one more dead. one more dying. one more to die.

they lied to themselves and then to us and then to the stinking wind.

bargain basement heroes erected for elucidation.

poison music stuffs the brain,

the roses yell for mercy,

mouse chases cat,

elephants carry the gray bad news,

infinity is split and nothing happens

and

one more dead. one more dying. one more to die.

the engine is stuffed with peat moss.

the schoolboys eat gravel.

space mutilates space.

the pin worms dance with the collared peccary.

throats are cut like bread.

flags are covered with custard.

the knife chases the gun.

and

one more

dead.

dying.

to die.

one more dead

rose

dog

flea

hyena,

as the spoon and the feather

dance in the night,

as the sheet pulls up the hand,

as the twilight laughs for its pill.

one more sister cut in half.

one more brother stuffed in the

bin.

the shoes put on you.

you, you, you,

no más
, no more.

like in a chair the color of the sun

as you listen to lazy piano music

and the aircraft overhead are not

at war.

where the last drink is as good as

the first

and you realized that the promises

you made yourself were

kept.

that's plenty.

that last: about the promises:

what's not so good is that the few

friends you had are

dead and they seem

irreplaceable.

as for women, you didn't know enough

early enough

and you knew enough

too late.

and if more self-analysis is allowed: it's

nice that you turned out well-

honed,

that you arrived late

and remained generally

capable.

outside of that, not much to say

except you can leave without

regret.

until then, a bit more amusement,

a bit more endurance,

leaning back

into it.

like the dog who got across

the busy street:

not all of it was good

luck.

he draws up to my rear bumper in the fast lane.

I can see his face in the rear view mirror, his eyes

are blue and he sucks on a dead cigar.

I pull over. he passes, then slows. I don't like

this.

I pull into the fast lane, ride

his rear bumper. we are as a team passing through

Compton.

I turn the radio on and light a cigarette.

he ups it 5 mph, I do likewise. we are as a team

entering Inglewood.

he pulls out of the fast lane and I drive past.

then I slow. when I check the rear view mirror he is

on my bumper again.

he has almost made me miss my turnoff at Century Blvd.

I hit the blinker and fire across 3 lanes of

traffic, just make the off-ramp,

cutting in front of an inflammable tanker.

blue eyes comes from behind the tanker and

we veer down the ramp in separate lanes to the signal.

we sit there side by side, not looking at each

other.

I am caught behind an empty school bus as he idles

behind a Mercedes.

the signal switches and he is gone. I cut to the

inside lane behind him. then I see the parking

lane open and I flash by to the right of him and the

Mercedes, turn up the radio, make the green light as the

Mercedes and blue eyes run the yellow turning into red.

they make it as I switch back ahead of

them in order to miss a parked vegetable

truck.

now we are running 1-2-3, not a cop in sight. we are

moving through a 1990 California July.

we are driving with skillful nonchalance.

we are moving in perfect formation.

we are as a team

approaching L.A. airport.

1-2-3

2-3-1

3-2-1.

when he got old he stopped writing, dabbled with

paints and put ads in the UCLA paper for

secretarial help.

Henry preferred Oriental ladies, young

ones

and they came by and did little things for

him

and he fell in love with them,

even though there was no sex.

he wrote them letters, all his writing went into

love letters.

and the ladies were flattered but simply went

on

teasing him.

he liked having them around.

maybe he felt that they held death back a

little

or maybe they stopped him from thinking

about it too much

or maybe the old boy was simply

horny.

I remember a young lady who came to

see me who said,

“I was going to fuck Henry Miller before he

died but now it's too late so I came to see

you.”

“forget it, baby,” I told her.

I liked the way Henry Miller looked in his

last years, like a wise Buddha

but he didn't act like one.

I only wish he had gone out in a

different way,

not begging for it,

using his name.

I would have preferred to see him

continue to write books

until the end,

right into the face

of death.

but since he couldn't do it

well, maybe somebody else

can.

there's some old fart

somewhere,

I'm sure

who can.

if he doesn't diddle his brains

away at the

racetrack.

morning,

it touches the nerves

quickly

as if we were already in

the hunter's sights.

the body yawns and stretches in the

light.

the pilgrimage

is about to

begin.

padding to the bathroom

to eliminate the

poisons.

behind the curtains is

their world.

wash hands, neck, face,

brush the remaining teeth

for the remaining

days.

clothe thyself.

not
that
shirt!

it's depressing…

get something green, something

yellow.

there, look.

smile.

shoes, damned shoes.

shoes look so sad.

you can't hide facts from

shoes.

forget the shoes,

put on your stupid shorts.

your fat buttery pants.

now, the shoes.

you forgot your hair.

comb your hair.

you look crazy with your hair

uncombed.

you're not crazy, are

you?

your wife is still asleep.

you're lucky.

she's lucky.

smile.

you're not crazy, are

you?

you go downstairs.

the animals wait for you.

the plants look at you

while the termites eat the wood.

the ant army beneath,

the poisoned air above.

your car outside.

your intestines, your belly,

your heart, your brain, your

etc.

inside.

you're sane,

you're normal.

you make sensible

decisions?

only there's a limit.

that's the catch.

you're the catch.

caught.

is it better to be a termite?

an ocelot?

a metronome?

a park bench?

or East Kansas City?

I feed the animals.

for that moment, that is what

I do.

I feed the animals.

it's

easy.

too often the people complain that they have

done nothing with their

lives

and then they wait for somebody to tell them

that this isn't so.

look, you've done this and that and you've

done that and that's

something.

you really think so?

of course.

but

they had it right.

they've done nothing.

shown no courage.

no inventiveness.

they did what they were taught to

do.

they did what they were told to

do.

they had no resistance, no thoughts

of their own.

they were pushed and shoved

and went obediently.

they had no heart.

they were cowardly.

they stank in life.

they stank up life.

and now they want to be told that

they didn't fail.

you've met them.

they're everywhere.

the spiritless.

the dead-before-death gang.

be kind?

lie to them?

tell them what they want to hear?

tell them anything they want to hear?

people with courage made them what they

aren't.

and if they ask me, I'll tell them what they

don't want to hear.

it's better you

keep them away from me, or

they'll tell you I'm a cruel man.

it's better that they confer

with you.

I want to be free of

that.

he got knifed in broad daylight, came up the street

holding his hands over his gut, dripping red

on the pavement.

nobody waiting in line left their place to help him.

he made it to the Mission doorway, collapsed in the

lobby where the desk clerk screamed, “hey, you

son-of-a-bitch, what are you doing?”

then he called an ambulance but the man was dead

when they got there.

the police came and circled the spots of blood

on the pavement

with white chalk

photographed everything

then asked the men waiting for their Sunday meal

if they had seen anything

if they knew anything.

they all said “no” to both.

while the police strutted in their uniforms

the others finally loaded the body into an ambulance.

afterwards the homeless men rolled cigarettes

as they waited for their meal

talking about the action

blowing farts and smoke

enjoying the sun

feeling quite like

celebrities.