as long as you do not get in her
way, and it must be that she doesn’t shit or
have blood
she must be a cloud, friend, the way she floats past us.
I am too sick to lay down
the sidewalks frighten me
the whole damned city frightens me,
what I will become
what I have become
frightens me.
ah, the bravado is gone
the big run through center is gone
on a windy afternoon in Hollywood
my radio cracks and spits its dirty music
through a floor full of empty beerbottles.
now I hear a siren
it comes closer
the music stops
the man on the radio says,
“we will send you a free 25-page booklet:
FACE THE FACTS ABOUT COLLEGE COSTS.”
the siren fades into the cardboard mountains
and I look out the window again as the clasped fist of
boiling cloud comes down—
the wind shakes the plants outside
I wait for evening I wait for night I wait sitting in a chair
by the window—
the cook drops in the live
red-pink salty
rough-tit crab and
the game works
on
come get me.
they, all of them, know
ask the sidewalk painters of Paris
ask the sunlight on a sleeping dog
ask the 3 pigs
ask the paperboy
ask the music of Donizetti
ask the barber
ask the murderer
ask the man leaning against a wall
ask the preacher
ask the maker of cabinets
ask the pickpocket or the
pawnbroker or the glass blower
or the seller of manure or
the dentist
ask the revolutionist
ask the man who sticks his head in
the mouth of a lion
ask the man who will release the next
atom bomb
ask the man who thinks he’s Christ
ask the bluebird who comes home
at night
ask the peeping Tom
ask the man dying of cancer
ask the man who needs a bath
ask the man with one leg
ask the blind
ask the man with the lisp
ask the opium eater
ask the trembling surgeon
ask the leaves you walk upon
ask a rapist or a
streetcar conductor or an old man
pulling weeds in his garden
ask a bloodsucker
ask a trainer of fleas
ask a man who eats fire
ask the most miserable man you can
find in his most
miserable moment
ask a teacher of judo
ask a rider of elephants
ask a leper, a lifer, a lunger
ask a professor of history
ask the man who never cleans his
fingernails
ask a clown or ask the first face you see
in the light of day
ask your father
ask your son and
his son to be
ask me
ask a burned-out bulb in a paper sack
ask the tempted, the damned, the foolish
the wise, the slavering
ask the builders of temples
ask the men who have never worn shoes
ask Jesus
ask the moon
ask the shadows in the closet
ask the moth, the monk, the madman
ask the man who draws cartoons for
The New Yorker
ask a goldfish
ask a fern shaking to a tapdance
ask the map of India
ask a kind face
ask the man hiding under your bed
ask the man you hate the most in this
world
ask the man who drank with Dylan Thomas
ask the man who laced Jack Sharkey’s gloves
ask the sad-faced man drinking coffee
ask the plumber
ask the man who dreams of ostriches every
night
ask the ticket taker at a freak show
ask the counterfeiter
ask the man sleeping in an alley under
a sheet of paper
ask the conquerors of nations and planets
ask the man who has just cut off his finger
ask a bookmark in the bible
ask the water dripping from a faucet while
the phone rings
ask perjury
ask the deep blue paint
ask the parachute jumper
ask the man with the bellyache
ask the divine eye so sleek and swimming
ask the boy wearing tight pants in
the expensive academy
ask the man who slipped in the bathtub
ask the man chewed by the shark
ask the one who sold me the unmatched
gloves
ask these and all those I have left out
ask the fire the fire the fire—
ask even the liars
ask anybody you please at any time
you please on any day you please
whether it’s raining or whether
the snow is there or whether
you are stepping out onto a porch
yellow with warm heat
ask this ask that
ask the man with birdshit in his hair
ask the torturer of animals
ask the man who has seen many bullfights
in Spain
ask the owners of new Cadillacs
ask the famous
ask the timid
ask the albino
and the statesman
ask the landlords and the poolplayers
ask the phonies
ask the hired killers
ask the bald men and the fat men
and the tall men and the
short men
ask the one-eyed men, the
oversexed and undersexed men
ask the men who read all the newspaper
editorials
ask the men who breed roses
ask the men who feel almost no pain
ask the dying
ask the mowers of lawns and the attenders
of football games
ask any of these or all of these
ask ask ask and
they’ll all tell you:
a snarling wife on the balustrade is more
than a man can bear.
a future congressman
in the men’s room at the
track
this boy of about
7 or 8 years old
came out of a stall
and the man
waiting for him
(probably his father)
asked,
“what did you do with the
racing program?
I gave it to you
to keep.”
“no,” said the boy,
“I ain’t seen it! I don’t
have it!”
they walked off and
I went into the stall
because it was the only one
available
and there
in the toilet
was the
program.
I tried to flush
the program
away
but it just swam
sluggishly about
and
remained.
I got out of
there and found
another
empty stall.
that boy was ready
/>
for his life to come,
he would undoubtedly
be highly successful,
the lying little
prick.
eulogy
with old cars, especially when you buy them secondhand
and drive them for many years
a love affair is inevitable:
you even learn to
accept their little
eccentricities:
the leaking water pump
the failing plugs
the rusted throttle arm
the reluctant carburetor
the oily engine
the dead clock
the frozen speedometer and
other sundry
defects.
you also learn all the tricks to
keep the love affair alive:
how to slam the glove compartment so that
it will stay closed,
how to slap the headlight with an open palm
in order to have
light,
how many times to pump the gas pedal
and how long to wait before
touching the starter,
and you overlook each burn hole in the
upholstery
and each spring
poking through the fabric.
your car has been in and out of
police impounds,
has been ticketed for various
malfunctions:
broken wipers,
no turn signals, missing
brake light, broken tail lights, bad
brakes, excessive
exhaust and so forth
but in spite of everything
you knew you were in good hands,
there was never an accident, the
old car moved you from one place to
another,
faithfully
—the poor man’s miracle.
so when that last breakdown did occur,
when the valves quit,
when the tired pistons
cracked, or the
crankshaft failed and
you sold it for
junk
—you then had to watch it carted
away
hanging there
from the back of the tow truck
wheeled off
as if it had no
soul,
the bald rear tires
the cracked back window and
the twisted license plate
were the last things you
saw, and it
hurt
as if some woman you loved very
much
and lived with
year after year
had died
and now you
would never
again know
her music
her magic
her unbelievable
fidelity.
the drowning
for five years I have been looking
across the way
at the side of a red apartment house.
there must be people in there
even love in there
whatever that means.
here blows a horn, there sounds a
piano, and yesterday’s newspapers are as
yellow as the grass.
five years.
a man can drown in five years,
while the red bricks
stand forever.
I hear sounds now like dancing in the
air
great bladders of blood are being loosed in
Mariposa Ave.
sweat drenches my temple like beads on a
cold beer can
as armies fight in my head.
I see a woman come out of the redbrick
apartment house.
she is fat and comfortable
the slow horse of her body moves
under a dress of pink carnations
playing tricks with my better sense
and now she is gone and
the bricks look back at me
the bricks with their
windows and the windows look at me
and a bird on a telephone wire looks
and I feel naked as I
try to forget all the good dead.
a band plays wildly
LOOKAWAY, LOOKAWAY,
DIXIELAND!
as they empty bladders of poison
and bags of oranges over Mariposa Ave.
and the cars run through them like poor snow
and my pink woman comes back and I
try to tell her
wait! wait!
don’t go back in there!
but she goes inside as
my bird flies away
and it is just
another hot evening in
Los Angeles:
some bricks, a mongoose or two, Chimera and
disbelief.
(uncollected)
fooling Marie (the poem)
he met her at the racetrack, a strawberry
blonde with round hips, well-bosomed, long legs,
turned-up nose, flower mouth, in a pink dress,
wearing white high-heeled shoes.
she began asking him questions about various
horses while looking up at him with her pale blue
eyes.
he suggested the bar and they had a drink, then
watched the next race together.
he hit fifty-win on a sixty-to-one shot and she
jumped up and down.
then she whispered in his ear,
“you’re the magic man! I want to fuck you!”
he grinned and said, “I’d like to, but
Marie…my wife…”
she laughed, “we’ll go to a motel!”
so they cashed the ticket, went to the parking lot,
got into her car. “I’ll drive you back when
we’re finished,” she smiled.
they found a motel about a mile
west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went to
room 302.
they had stopped for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s
on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the
cellophane. as she undressed he poured two.
she had a marvelous young body. she sat on the edge of
the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he
undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old
but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day
ever.
then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and
his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over
and grabbed him between the legs, bent over
and went down on him.
he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.
finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a
miracle, but soon it ended, and when she
went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks
thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never
know.
she came out and they sat in bed
making small talk.
“I’m going to shower now,” he told her,
“I’ll be out soon.”
“o.k., cutie,” she said.
he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the
perfume, the woman-smell.
“hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.
“I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from the
shower.
he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom
door and stepped out.
the motel room was empty.
she was gone.
on some impulse he ran to the closet, pulled the door
open: nothing there but coat hangers.
then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his underwear, his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,
on another impulse he looked under the bed.
nothing.
then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,
standing on the dresser.
he walked over and poured a drink.
as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser
mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.
he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself
in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.
he had no idea what to do next.
he carried the whiskey, back to the bed, sat down,
lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the
boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat
and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and
forth.
the young man on the bus stop bench
he sits all day at the bus stop
at Sunset and Western
his sleeping bag beside him.
he’s dirty.
nobody bothers him.
people leave him alone.
the police leave him alone.
he could be the 2nd coming of Christ
but I doubt it.
the soles of his shoes are completely
gone.
he just laces the tops on
and sits and watches traffic.
I remember my own youthful days
(although I traveled lighter)
they were similar:
park benches
street corners
tarpaper shacks in Georgia for
$1.25 a week
not wanting the skid row church
hand-outs
too crazy to apply for relief
daytimes spent laying in public parks
bugs in the grass biting