Come On In (12 page)

finally,

goaded by the high price of

female relationships

he lashed his ankles to the

bedpoles

and tried to reach his

own

penis

with his

mouth:

close but no

cigar.

another of

nature’s dirty

tricks. 

finally, in a

fury, he gave it a last

mad

attempt. 

something cracked in his

back

and a blue flame

engulfed his

brain. 

after 45 minutes of

agony

he got himself off

the bed, 

found he couldn’t stand

straight.

each time he tried

a hundred knives cut

into both his back and

his soul. 

the next day

he managed to drive to

the doctor’s

office

bent low over the

steering wheel

barely able to

see through the

windshield. 

“how did you do this?”

the

doctor

asked. 

he told the doctor

the honest

truth

because he felt

that an informed

diagnosis

was the only chance

for a complete

cure. 

“what?” said the

doctor. “you’re

kidding?” 

“no, that’s what

happened.”

“please excuse me,

I’ll be right

back.” 

there was a dead

silence.

then he heard the

soft laughter of

the doctor and the

nurse from

behind the door.

then it grew

louder. 

he sat there

looking out the office

window: there was a park outside

with lovely mature trees, it was

a fine summer afternoon

the birds were out in force and

for some odd reason

he longed for a shimmering bowl

of cool wet grapes.

the laughter behind the door

grew softer again

and then died out

as he sat there

waiting. 

some keep trying to connect me with

the “Beats”

but I was almost unpublished in the

1950s

and

even then

I very much

distrusted their vanity and

all that

public

posturing. 

and when I met a few of them

later in life

I realized that most of my original

feelings for

them

hadn’t

changed. 

some of my friends accepted

that; others thought that I

should change my

opinion. 

my opinion remains the

same: writing is done

one person

at a time

one place

at a time 

and all the gatherings

of

the

flock

have very little

to do

with

anything. 

any one of them

could have made

a decent living as a

bill collector or a

used car

salesman 

and they still

could

make an honest living

instead of bitching about

changes of fashion and

the ways of fate. 

but instead

from the sad university

lecterns

and in the poetry halls

these hucksters of the

despoiled word

are still clamoring for

handouts,

still talking the same

dumb

shit. 

when will you take to the cane,

Chinaski?

when will you walk that short-legged

dog into the last

sunset?

that wrinkled-nosed dog

snorting and sniffing

before you

as the sidewalks part

and the ocean roars in

bearing beautiful

mermaids. 

straighten your back,

the sun is rushing past

you,

grin at the gods,

they only lent you the luck and the

mirage. 

Chinaski?

you hear me?

the young girls of your dreams

have grown old.

Chinaski,

let it go,

the music has finished.

Chinaski?

Chinaski, don’t you hear

me?

why do you keep trying?

nobody is watching.

nobody cares,

not even you. 

you are alone, Chinaski,

and below the stage

the seats are

empty.

the theatre is dark.

why do you keep

acting? 

what a bad

habit. 

the air is so still,

the air is black and still as

you move through the last of

yourself,

give way, give way

old poet,

hanging by the last thread,

use your courage

write that last line,

get out, get out, get out,

get out, get out, get out,

it’s easy,

the last classic

act.

the coast is clear,

now. 

there’s no hell like your own hell,

none can compare,

twisting in the sheets at night,

your ass freezing,

your mind on fire,

everything stupid, stupid,

as you are stuck in your poor body and in

your poor life

and it’s all slowly dissolving, dissolving

into nothing.

like all the other bodies, like all the other

lives,

we all are being counted out,

taken down

by disease

by just being rubbed up against

the hard days, the harder years.

there’s no escaping

this,

we just have to take it,

accept it—

or like most—

not think about it.

at all. 

shoes off and on.

holidays come and gone.

hello,

goodbye.

dress, undress.

eat, sleep. 

drive an automobile.

pay your taxes.

wash under the arms and

behind the neck

and scrub everything

else, for sure. 

pick your coffin ahead

of time.

feel the smooth wood.

go for the soft, padded, expensive

interior.

the salesman will commend you

on your good

taste. 

then horrify him.

tell him you want to try it for

size. 

there’s no hell like your own

hell and there’s nobody else

ever

to share it with

you. 

you might as well be the only

person left on earth.

sometimes you feel as if you

were.

and maybe you are. 

meanwhile, pluck the lint from

your belly button,

accept what is,

get laid once in a while,

shake hands with nothing at all.

it’s always been like this, it’s always been like

this.

don’t scream.

there’s nobody left to hear

you. 

strange things,

strange things these cities, the trees,

our feet walking the sidewalks,

the blood inside us

lubricating our

hearts,

the centuries finally shot apart

as you slip on your stockings and pull them

up over your

ankles. 

once more

the typing is about

finished 

poems scatter the

floor 

this smoky room 

the radio whispers

the symphony of a

dead

man 

the lamp

looks at me

from my

left 

it is late

night

moving

into

morning 

I have lived

again

the lucky

hours 

then the

phone

rings

son-of-a-

bitch:

impossible!
 

but my wife

will get

the

phone 

perhaps

it’s for

her 

it can’t be

for

me 

I’d kill 

anybody

who would

spoil

what 

the gods

have sent

this old

fellow 

once

again

as the dark

trees

shake

outside 

as death

finally

is a monkey

caught

in a

cage. 

“today,” says the radio announcer,

“is Bastille Day.

203 years ago they stormed the Bastille,”

and that is the highlight of my day.

I have really been burnt out lately.

I go outside,

undress,

get in the pool, wrap my blue

floater around my gut

and water-jog.

I feel like an old man.

hell, I am an old man.

when I was born it was only 132 years back to

Bastille Day.

now, pains in my right leg and foot make for

a long day at the track

and the decades cling to me like

leeches,

sucking my energy and

my spirit.

but I intend to make a comeback

very soon.

I need the action, the gamble.

now I am drinking a cold beer.

I relax and just float.

suddenly things look better.

the leg and foot no longer hurt.

I even begin to feel good.

I’m not done yet! 

I will remain in the arena.

hail, Bastille Day!

hail all the old dogs!

hail you!

hail me!

that last good

night is not yet here. 

my wife doesn’t see much of me

anymore

since she got me this computer

for Xmas.

I never thought anything could consume

me like it

has. 

the poems arrive by the

dozens

and yesterday there was even a decent bit

of prose. 

I’ve now gone the complete route.

I once hand-printed all my poems and

stories.

then came the manual

typewriter.

then the electric typer.

and now this. 

it’s as if I have been reborn.

I watch the words form on the

screen

and as I watch more and more

words

form. 

and, actually, the content seems

to be

as good as ever.

things get said as they have

always been said.

only now it’s more like setting off

firecrackers or

exploding words into outer

space. 

I’ve been told that the computer

can’t write for me.

hell, I don’t know, this thing

seems to have a

psyche

all its own

and it certainly spells

better than I

do. 

there were always words

I wanted to use

but I was too lazy to

check the

spelling.

so I used a simpler version

or just didn’t

bother.

now I toss the word

in,

then ask the computer if

I’ve got it spelled

right. 

there’s an old theory

that if you put ten thousand

monkeys in a room for

Eternity

they would eventually

rewrite every great novel

ever written,

word for word. 

with a computer

they’d do it

in half an

hour. 

anyhow, I’m more or less

one of those

monkeys now

and my wife hardly ever

sees me anymore, as I said

before. 

I hear her coughing in the

next room

so I know that she is

there. 

but that’s enough

computer talk. 

it’s time for another

poem. 

the books are selling, there are critical articles, more and

more critical articles that claim my work is, indeed,

at last, pretty damned good.

I am being taught alongside some of the masters.

a dangerous time, a most dangerous time

for me.

if I accept my new position, then I must work from that new

position.

I must then attempt to hold my ground, not

despoil it.

but I have watched too many others

soften, lose their natural force.

too much acceptance destroys.

so listen, my fine fellows and ladies, I am going to

ignore your late applause,

I intend to still play it loose, commit my errors,

enrage the entrenched and piss upon your

guardians, angels and / or devils.

I intend to do what I

have to do, what I have always done.

it’s been too much fun to falter now. 

you will not escape my iron grip

and I will escape

yours.