New Poems Book Three (15 page)

more and more I get letters

from young men who say they are

going to take my place, that I’ve had it too good

for too long, that they’re going to kick my ass,

strip me of my poetic black belt, etc.

I am astonished how sure

they are of their literary talent.

I suppose they have been bolstered

by their wives, girlfriends, mothers,

teachers, barbers, uncles, brothers,

waitresses and even the gas station

attendant.

but why would they want to knock

a nice guy like me off his perch?

I listen to Mahler, tip 20 percent, give

money to bums, get up each morning

and feed 9 cats.

why can’t I keep my black belt a little while

longer?

I get drunken phone calls at 3 a.m.

“you’ve had it, Chinaski, you’ve sold

out!

I’m the
REAL ARTIST
, you son-of-a-bitch,

and
I’m
out on the street!

I’m waiting for you outside right now, I’m

going to beat the shit out of you,

Chinaski!”

or they come to the door and if I don’t

respond, the night rings with their

curses and beer cans are flung against

the window.

all these ranting, raving, would-be poets!

and me, such a nice guy,

they want my charmed ass.

I’m sure I’ll be replaced some day, perhaps I already

have been replaced.

I understand how the literary game works.

I’ve had my fling, a long fling

and I’m old enough so that I could die in the wink of

an eye.

I shouldn’t be smoking this big cigar

or drinking one beer after

the other.

has my black belt already slipped down around

my ankles?

am I ready to step aside?

patience, patience, fellows, you’ll have

your day, not all, but one or two of

the best of you.

meanwhile, can’t you find somebody

else to badger?

must I always be a part of your agenda?

I’m a good guy, I haven’t punched anybody

in the mouth for ten years.

I even voted for the first time in my life.

I’m a responsible citizen

keep my car washed

greet my neighbors

talk to the mailman.

the owner of the neighborhood sushi bar bows to me

when I walk in.

yet the other day somebody mailed me

a letter, the pages smeared with

shit.

it seems like

every young poet wants my charmed ass!

please wait, fellows, I will accommodate you in time.

meanwhile, let me keep playing with my poem-toys,

let me continue for just a little

while longer!

thank

you.

Thou shalt not
fail as a writer

because the vultures are waiting in the wings ready

to swoop down and sign their

“I told you so’s.”

Thou shalt not
fail as a writer

because the very act of writing is the best protection

from the madness of the

world.

Thou shalt not
fail as a writer

because it’s the finest form of self-entertainment

ever

invented.

but Thou shall
be finished as a writer

upon the hour or day of your

demise

only to have thick new books of yours

appear for years afterwards compiled

from the stockpile of poems you

left behind for your

publisher.

let it be so:

these wisps of magic

wrested from the clutch

of

death.

I was with my lady

down at the beach.

she was an over-

sexed

young

lady.

she was on fire

with sex.

to her

sex was

everything:

the quivering

apex

the spouting

Nirvana.

that was

fine with me

although

I sometimes

longed for

other

things

too.

like I said,

I was with my lady

down at the beach.

we had stopped at

a little park

where

the old folks were

playing

shuffleboard.

I was

tired

after nights and

nights of

action

and in addition

I had failed her

miserably

the night

before.

the lady

pointed to

the old

folks.

they all seemed

to me to be

very pale,

slow,

drained.

“there!

over there! why don’t

you go join

THEM!
”

well, I didn’t care much

for

shuffleboard.

I took her

by the elbow and

guided her into a

restaurant

along the

promenade.

we each had a cold

drink.

then I re-ordered

two more

and went to the

men’s room.

when I came out

she was engaged in a

lively
chat

with a

young fellow

with a head

like

a pig.

I was not

jealous.

in fact,

I would not have

minded

at all

leaving them there alone

together

but

we had driven down

in
her

car.

so

I walked over

and sat down

next to

her.

“hey!” she said

to me

brightly:

“this guy writes

poetry

too!”

“umm umm,”

I said,

lifted my glass

and took a

sip.

then I looked at

him

and smiled:

“I guess we both

are in the

same game.

good luck to

you …”

my lady was

taken aback by my

cordiality.

but

think about

it:

have you ever

tried riding a bus

from Ocean Park to

East Hollywood?

banging up

almost every day

against the

same young female

buckboard

may finally

drive an old man

to the edge of

his grave

but

there are worse

things.

I slide out of my battered

BMW

tell the valet,

“we accept but do not

offer mercy.”

he laughs, “hey, hey,

I like that!”

he is a chatty

sort.

he shows me his arm:

“look, that’s from a razor.

I was trying it one

night until I asked myself,

‘why should I disfigure

a beautiful body like

mine?’”

(he’s built like an

ape.)

“either way, you’re

right.”

“what do you

mean?”

“I mean, do it or

don’t, you’re

right.”

he grins: “hey,

yeah! that’s

true!”

we smile at one another.

“I hear you write books?”

he says.

“that’s true,

sometimes.”

“where can I buy your

shit?”

“here and there …”

there is a line of

cars building up behind

us. it is a hot stupid

Saturday.

they

begin to

honk.

“
HEY, YOU GUYS, KNOCK IT

OFF
!”

“
THEY”RE PUTTING THEM IN THE

GATE
!”

“
CUT OUT THE SHIT
!”

the mob never understands

exchanges of

culture.

I move toward the

clubhouse.

my valet friend gets in and

zooms off in my

battered

BMW.

yes,

almost

anything

makes a

poem.

I was always charmed by

hypochromic beldams

inchoate slatterns,

caseated mesdames,

slimy prostitutes and

piss-drinking

shrews.

but now I prefer to

live alone and watch

as my cat sits in the

window

devouring an abandoned

cigarette.

so I get up and go to the

bathroom,

throw water

on my face,

look at that mug

so long ago abandoned by beauty; I

wince, gag, giggle.

heroically.

hero poet

hero man

hero friend

hero hero

hero lover

hero bather

hero

bullshitter.

young girls wearing nylons

and garter belts like their mothers

used to

would love watching me here, watering a

plant, putting one white egg

into a small pot of boiling water.

I walk over

put one finger on the greasy refrigerator

door, draw a horse,

put the number 9 on him as

the phone rings

rings

rings

I lift it and say, “yes?”

fear bounding up and down my arms,

I don’t want to see any of them,

I don’t want to hear from them, they should

all vanish forever.

what I need to protect me from them are

trenches, armies, the

blessing of a little luck.

“Hank?” says the voice, “how are you

doing?”

“o.k.,” I say.

in the old days before they had Sunday

racing in California,

I’d drive down to Tijuana in my

old car

to the Agua Caliente racetrack.

little did I realize that in Mexico the

take was 25%

(it was no wonder the prices were so

short)

and you had to pay the bandits

in parking a dollar for

“protection” or else there would be

something really wrong with your car when

you came back out.

I had fair luck with the betting down

there

but the service at the food stand

was slow and lousy but since

the bar was efficient I just went to the

bar.

but I never should have driven that

old car down there;

a breakdown and I surely would have been

stranded;

I had little money, no friends, no

parents,

but the car held up, the old dear.

on my good winning days, I’d

stay over a few hours that night in one of

the local bars;

that always seemed to make the drive

back shorter.

then Sunday racing began in

California

so why drive all that way?

a horse is a horse and a jock is a jock

and a race is a race,

but I miss Agua Caliente, that long long back

stretch which gave the jocks in a fixed

race plenty of time to pull their horses

back.

and those beautiful hills behind the track!

just getting out of the U.S.A. for a

day

cured a lot of what was driving me

crazy.

now I drive 20 miles to the local track

in a new car,

sit in the clubhouse with the other safe,

fat Americans

and I’m going really crazy all over

again but this time

without a cure.

the owner of the restaurant comes to our

table and starts philosophizing

about a number

of things: the national debt,

the necessity of war,

how to recognize a fine wine,

the mystery of love, etc.

of course, he says nothing new or

exceptional and the shrimp scampi

I am eating are

tough.

he laughs after each of his wise

pronouncements.

my wife smiles.

I nod.

the owner has been up front

singing with the piano player and

a couple of drunks.

he’s an old white-haired guy,

happy to be making money in the

business

but his singing is not too

good: more or less old–

fashioned, embarrassing,

sentimental,

and the shrimp are still

tough.

he’ll go away eventually,

I think

and sure enough he does after

shaking my hand one more

time.

my wife looks at me and says,

“you’re drunk.”

not drunk enough, I think.

I look around at the

other tables and notice

that they are all

peopled by the dead.

my wife stares at a plant near

our table.

“this plant is going to die,” she

says

I nod.

a man at the table next to

us waves his hand as he talks

and knocks over his glass of

wine.

he leaps up from his chair

and stands there

bent over with his

back to us

and all I can see is his big fat

butt.

enough is enough.

I wave the waiter over for

the bill.

I’ve done much listening and some

thinking

and it seems to me

that our contemporary composers

(at least those here in the U.S.A.)

are mostly university-sponsored

and comfortable

and their work lacks that

old world desperate

romanticism and

gamble.

consider the old boys

during the last 2 centuries in Europe.

it’s true that many of them were

sponsored by the so-called

Nobility

but there was a whole

pack of them who

starved

went mad or

suicided—

their lives became the ultimate sacrifice to

their art—

and

pragmatically speaking

this might seem

foolish

but I feel that

it was pretty damned brave

and that

that terrible final sacrifice

can be heard

in what they left

behind.

a man tends to lie

less

when he is starving and

trembling at the edge of

madness—

that is, most of the

time.