sucker.
A HELL OF A DUET
we were always broke, rescuing the Sunday papers out of
Monday trashcans (along with the refundable soft drink bottles).
we were always being evicted from our old place
but in each new apartment we would begin a new existence,
always dramatically behind in the rent, the radio
playing bravely in the torn sunlight, we lived like millionaires, as if
our lives were blessed, and I loved her high-heeled shoes and her sexy
dresses, and also how she laughed at me
sitting in my torn undershirt decorated with
cigarette holes: we were some team, Jane and I, we sparkled through
the tragedy of our poverty as if it was a joke, as if it
didn’t matter—and it didn’t—we had it by the throat and we were
laughing it to death.
it was said afterwards that
never had been heard such wild singing, such joyful singing of
old songs
and never
such screaming and cursing—
breaking of glass—
madness—
barricaded against the landlord and the police (old pros, we were) to
awake in the morning with the couch, chairs and dresser pushed up against the
door.
upon awakening
I always said, “ladies first …”
and Jane would run to the bathroom for some minutes and then
I’d have my turn and
then, back in our bed, both of us breathing quietly, we’d wonder what
disaster the new day would bring, feeling trapped, slain, stupid,
desperate, feeling that we had used up the last of our luck, certain we were finally
out of good fortune.
it can get deep-rooted sad when your back is up against the wall first
thing each morning but we always managed to work our way past all
that.
usually after 10 or 15 minutes Jane would say,
“shit!” and I would say,
“yeah!”
and then, penniless and without hope we’d figure out a
way to
continue, and then somehow we would.
love has her many strange ways.
THE DOGS
the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk
in the sun and in the
rain and in the dark and in the
afternoon
the dogs quickly walk down the sidewalk and they know something
but they won’t tell us
what it is.
no
they aren’t going to tell us
no no no
they aren’t going to tell us
as
the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk.
it’s all there to be seen
in the sun and the rain and in the dark
the dogs walking quickly down the sidewalk
watch them watch them watch them
with the eye and with the heart
as the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk
knowing something we will never comprehend.
PART 3.
death will come on padded feet
carrying roses in its mouth.
COLD SUMMER
not as bad as it could be
but bad enough: in and out
of the hospital, in and out of
the doctor’s office, hanging
by a thread: “you’re in
remission, no, wait, 2 new
cells here, and your
platelets are way down.
have you been drinking?
we’ll probably have to take
another bone marrow test
tomorrow.”
the doctor is busy, the
waiting room in the cancer
ward is crowded.
the nurses are pleasant, they
joke with me.
I think that’s nice, joking while in the
valley of the
shadow of death.
my wife is with me.
I am sorry for my wife, I am
sorry for all the
wives.
then we are down in the
parking lot.
she drives sometimes.
I drive sometimes.
I drive now.
it’s been a cold summer.
“maybe you should take a
little swim when we get home,”
says my
wife.
it’s a warmer day than
usual.
“sure,” I say and pull out of
the parking lot.
she’s a brave woman, she
acts like everything is
as usual.
but now I’ve got to pay for all
those profligate years;
there were so many of
them.
the bill has come due
and they’ll accept only
one final
payment.
I might as well take a
swim.
CRIME DOES PAY
the rooms at the hospital went for
$550 a day.
that was for the room alone.
the amazing thing, though, was that
in some of the rooms
prisoners were
lodged.
I saw them chained to their beds,
usually by an
ankle.
$550 a day, plus meals,
now that’s luxury
living—plus first-rate medical attention
and two guards
on watch.
and here I was with my cancer,
walking down the halls in my
robe
thinking, if I live through this
it will take me years to
pay off the hospital
while the prisoners won’t owe
a damned
thing.
not that I didn’t have some
sympathy for those fellows
but when you consider that
when something like a bullet
in one of your buttocks
gets you all that free attention,
medical and otherwise,
plus no billing later
from the hospital business
office, maybe I had chosen
the wrong
occupation?
THROWING MY WEIGHT AROUND
at 5:30 a.m. I was
awakened by this hard sound,
heavy and hard, rolling on the linoleum
floor.
the door opened and something entered the
room which was still
dark.
it looked like a large cross but
it was only a beam scale.
“gotta weigh you,” said the nurse.
she was a big black woman,
kindly but determined.
“now?” I asked.
“yes, honey, come on, get on the
scale.”
I got off the bed and made my way over
there.
I got on.
I had trouble with my balance.
I was ill, weak.
she moved the weights back and
forth trying to get a
read.
“let’s see … let’s see … hmmm …”
I was about to fall off when
she finally said, “185.”
the next morning it was a male
nurse, a good fellow, a bit on the
plump side.
he rolled in and I stepped on the
scale.
he had a problem too, sliding the weights
back and forth, trying to get a
read.
“I can hardly stand,” I said.
“just a little longer,�
�� he said.
I was about to topple off when he
said, “184.”
I went back to bed and
awaited the scheduled 6 a.m. daily
blood withdrawal.
something has to be
done, I thought.
I’m going to fall off of that
scale some morning and crack
my head open.
so at midday I got into
a conversation with the head nurse
who listened to my problem.
“well, all right,” she said, “we
won’t weigh you every
morning, we’ll only weigh you
3 times a week, Monday,
Wednesday and
Saturday.”
I thanked her.
“I’ll write an order on your
chart,” she said.
I don’t know what she wrote
on my chart
but they never weighed me
again
Monday, Wednesday,
Saturday
or any other day and I was there
in that hospital
for another two
months.
in fact, I never heard the hard sound
of that scale rolling down the hallway
again.
I think they stopped weighing
everybody
except maybe themselves
now and then.
Christ, the damned thing was
just too difficult to operate
anyhow.
THEY ROLLED THE BED OUT OF THERE
the nurse was standing with her back to me,
saying, “I’ve got to get the air bubbles out of
the line.”
I began to cough and I coughed some more,
then I began to tremble, tremble and
shake and jump.
I couldn’t breathe, my face was burning
but the worst was my back, right down at the
end of the spine—the pain was black and
unendurable
and the next thing I knew was
the sound of loud buzzers
and they were rolling the bed out
of there, there were 5 or 6 female nurses,
there was an oxygen tank and then I was
breathing again, the tubes stuck in my
nostrils.
they rolled me down to a large room
across from the nurses’ station and it was
like in a movie, I was hooked up to a
machine that had little blue lines
dancing across the screen.
“do you still need oxygen?” one of
the nurses asked.
“let’s try it without.”
it was all right then.
“how much is this room costing me?”
I asked.
“don’t worry, we’re not charging
anything extra.”
after a while they came in with a
portable machine and x-rayed
me.
“how long am I going to be in this
room?”
“overnight or until somebody needs
it more than you do.”
then my wife was there.
“my god, I went to your room
and it was empty, bed and all!
why are you here?”
“they haven’t figured it out yet.”
“there must be a reason.”
“sure.”
well, I wasn’t dead and my wife
sat and watched the little lines
dance on the screen
and I watched the nurses
answering the phones and
reading things on clipboards
and actually it was rather
pleasant and almost
interesting, although there was
no tv in the room and I was
going to miss the Sumo tournament
on channel
18.
the next day the doctors said
they had no idea what had
caused the whole thing
and the nurses took my bed
and rolled me back to my
old room with the tiny window,
my trusty
urinal, and the little Christ
they had nailed to the wall
after my 3rd day
there.
CRAWL
the streets melt, I do not
smile often, I hold up these trembling white
walls.
the finish line beckons
while
the stables are full of fresh, young
runners.
the crowd screams for more action
as I don my green
bathrobe,
x-tough guy
dangling at the end of the
dream.
anything to say to the world,
sir?
no.
would you do it all over again?
no.
have you learned anything
from this experience?
no.
any advice for the young
poets?
learn to say “no.”
I really know nothing at all.
the hospital spins like a top,
spewing nurses throughout the
building.
I have escaped twice before
and now is the third
time.
slow death is pure
death, you can taste a little bit of it
each day.
I am amazed that other people
remain alive and healthy:
doing their duties,
bored and/or beastly.
they swarm about,
fill the streets and buildings.
these are the fortunate
unfortunates.
I stretch out upon the bed.
my poor wife, she must live with
this.
she is a strong, good
woman.
“you’re going to be fine,”
she says.
and so are:
the blue whale, the sleepy young
doctors practicing their vascular
and bariatric surgery, the simple
dark tone of
midnight.
I’ll see them all later in the forest along with the
giant
gorilla.
NOTHING HERE
so much of my early life I was worried about paying
the rent, now something else is trying to move
me out of here, permanently,
and this landlord will accept no
excuses such as
“I’ll pay you next week for sure!”
notice has been served on me
and my final eviction looms.
but as in the old days, I continue,
go through the motions,
read the newspaper, stare at the walls
and wonder, wonder
how did it ever come to this,
this senselessness staring me down.
all my books don’t help.
my poems don’t help either.
nothing or nobody helps.
it’s just me alone, waiting, breathing,
pondering.
there’s nothing even to be brave about.
there’s nothing here at all.
MY LAST WINTER
I see this final storm as nothing very serious in the sight of
the world;
there are so many more important things to worry about
and to
consider.
I see this final storm as nothing very special in the sight of
the world
and it shouldn’t be thought of as special.
other storms have been much greater, more dramatic.
I see this final storm approa
ching and calmly
my mind waits.
I see this final storm as nothing very serious in the sight of
the world.
the world and I have seldom agreed on most
matters but
now we can agree.
so bring it on, bring on this final storm.
I have patiently waited for too long now.
FIRST POEM BACK
64 days and nights in that
place, chemotherapy,
antibiotics, blood running into
the catheter.
leukemia.
who, me?
at age 72 I had this foolish thought that
I’d just die peacefully in my sleep
but
the gods want it their way.
I sit at this machine, shattered,
half alive,
still seeking the Muse,
but I am back for the moment only;
while nothing seems the same.
I am not reborn, only
chasing
a few more days, a few more nights,
like
this
one.
A SUMMATION
more wasted days,
gored days,
evaporated days.
more squandered days,
days pissed away,
days slapped around,
mutilated.
the problem is
that the days add up
to a life,
my life.
I sit here
73 years old
knowing I have been badly
fooled,
picking at my teeth
with a toothpick
which
breaks.
dying should come easy:
like a freight train you
don’t hear when
your back is
turned.
WALKING PAPERS
Dear Sir or Madam:
we must inform you that there is no room
left here for you now
and you must leave
despite all your years of faithful service
and the courage you showed on many
occasions,
and despite the fact that many of your fondest dreams
have yet to be realized.
still, you were better than most,
you accepted adversity without complaint,
you drove an automobile carefully,
you served your country and your employers well,
your compassion for
your unloving spouse and
care less children
never wavered,
you never farted in public,
you refused to exhibit rancor,
you were acceptably normal, fairly understanding and rarely
foolish,
you also remembered all birthdays, holidays and special
occasions,
you drank but never to excess,
you seldom cursed,
you lived within all the rules you never made,