The Last Night of the Earth Poems Read Free Page B

pleasant
    afternoons
    in the garden
    long before I.
 
    writing is its own intoxication
    while publishing and editing,
    attempting to collect bills
    carries its own
    attrition
    which also includes dealing with the
    petty bitchings and demands
    of many
    so-called genius darlings who are
    not.
 
    I won’t blame him for getting
    out
    and hope he sends me photos of his
    Rose Lane, his
    Gardenia Avenue.
    will I have to seek other
    promulgators?
    that fellow in the Russian
    fur hat?
    or that beast in the East
    with all that hair
    in his ears, with those wet and
    greasy lips?
 
    or will my editor-publisher
    upon exiting for that world of Trollius and
    trellis
    hand over the
    machinery
    of his former trade to a
    cousin, a
    daughter or
    some Poundian from Big
    Sur?
 
    or will he just pass the legacy on
    to the
    Shipping Clerk
    who will rise like
    Lazarus,
    fingering new-found
    importance?
 
    one can imagine terrible
    things:
    “Mr. Chinaski, all your work
    must now be submitted in
    Rondo form
    and
    typed
    triple-spaced on rice
    paper.”
 
    power corrupts,
    life aborts
    and all you
    have left
    is a
    bunch of
    warts.
 
    “no, no, Mr. Chinaski:
    Rondo form!”
 
    “hey, man,” I’ll ask,
    “haven’t you heard of
    the thirties?”
 
    “the thirties? what’s
    that?”
 
    my present editor-publisher
    and I
    at times
    did discuss the thirties,
    the Depression
    and
    some of the little tricks it
    taught us—
    like how to endure on almost
    nothing
    and move forward
    anyhow.
 
    well, John, if it happens enjoy your
    divertissement to
    plant husbandry,
    cultivate and aerate
    between
    bushes, water only in the
    early morning, spread
    shredding to discourage
    weed growth
    and
    as I do in my writing:
    use plenty of
    manure.
 
    and thank you
    for locating me there at
    5124 DeLongpre Avenue
    somewhere between
    alcoholism and
    madness.
 
    together we
    laid down the gauntlet
    and there are takers
    even at this late date
    still to be
    found
    as the fire sings
    through the
    trees.

air and light and time and space
     
     
    “—you know, I’ve either had a family, a job, something
    has always been in the
    way
    but now
    I’ve sold my house, I’ve found this
    place, a large studio, you should see the space and
    the light .
    for the first time in my life I’m going to have a place and the time to
    create. ”
 
    no baby, if you’re going to create
    you’re going to create whether you work
    16 hours a day in a coal mine
    or
    you’re going to create in a small room with 3 children
    while you’re on
    welfare,
    you’re going to create with part of your mind and your
    body blown
    away,
    you’re going to create blind
    crippled
    demented,
    you’re going to create with a cat crawling up your
    back while
    the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
    flood and fire.
 
    baby, air and light and time and space
    have nothing to do with it
    and don’t create anything
    except maybe a longer life to find
    new excuses
    for.

the eagle of the heart—
     
     
    what will they be writing about 2,000 years from
    now
    if they are
    here?
 
    now
    I drink cabernet sauvignon while
    listening to
    Bach: it’s
    most curious: this
    continuing death
    this
    continuing life
 
    as
    I look at this hand
    holding a cigarette
    I feel as if
    I have been here
    forever.
 
    now
    troops with bayonets
    sack
    the town below.
    my dog, Tony, smiles at
    me.
 
    it is well
    to feel good
    for no reason;
    or
    with a limited
    choice to
    choose
    anyhow;
    or with a little love,
    not to buckle to
    hatred.
    faith, brother, not in the
    gods
    but in
    yourself:
    don’t ask,
    tell.
 
    I tell you
    such fine
    music
    waits
    in the
    shadows
    of
    hell.

bright red car
     
     
    I try to avoid speed duels on the freeway but the curious thing
    is
    that all my speeding tickets are when I am quietly driving along on
    my
    own.
 
    when I am in a high speed duel, darting in and out of lanes
    at near 100 m.p.h.
    the police are never
    about.
 
    when I get tagged for speeding it is