The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills (6 page)

 

“They only burn themselves to reach Paradise.”

—Mme. Nhu

 

 

original courage is good,

motivation be damned,

and if you say they are trained

to feel no pain,

are they

guaranteed this?

is it still not
possible

to die for somebody else?

 

 

you sophisticates

who lay back and

make statements of explanation,

I have seen the red rose burning

and this means more.

 

 

I live in an old house where nothing

screams victory

reads history

where nothing

plants flowers

 

 

sometimes my clock falls

sometimes my sun is like a tank on fire

 

 

I do not ask

your armies

or

your kisses

or

your death

I have my

own

 

 

my hands have arms

my arms have shoulders

my shoulders have me

I have me

you have me when you can see me

but I don’t like you

to see me

 

 

I do not like you to see that

I have eyes in my head

and can walk

and

I do not want to

answer your questions

I do not want to

amuse you

I do not want you to

amuse me

or sicken me

or talk about

anything

 

 

I do not want to

love you

 

 

I do not want to

save you

 

 

I do not want your arms

I do not want your

shoulders

 

 

I have me

you have you

 

 

let that

be.

 

 

and Joe he was not much good

even at half past 40, he insensibly

loved whore and horse like the average man,

his age would love what brought up color

out of the stem of a dahlia, but so it goes,

the gods break us in half with more than

lightning, twice married twice divorced,

who can ask for more than bloodshot eyes

and bumblebeebelly, good men are broken

daily in the Korea of useless sunlight;

quitting jobs, getting fired more than rockets,

knowing nothing, absolutely nothing

except maybe the way he wanted his haircut,

bouncing like a 16-year-old kid out of a

bad dream, always late for work

but never late for the first race

or the end stool down at the HAPPY NIGHT.

the saying is, Joe never grew up

but in another way he never grew down either,

trying to puff life into himself through his

cheap cigar and flat jukebox music,

or fat June who didn’t care either,

telling her over and over,

Baby, wait’ll you see what I’ve got!

as if the whole thing were something new

and fat June staring into her all-important beer

shaking it and enjoying it

as she would never enjoy herself again.

 

 

and when Joe went, a child went,

but they remember him: the whores, the bartenders,

the bosses, the state unemployment offices,

and the jocks—

the way he used to stand down by the rail

and say as they paraded past:

“Hi, Willie! How’s your mother today?”

or, “Eddie, you oughta get one made of wood,

the way you’re riding lately.”

 

 

Joe I saw on that last night and he threw his

glass into the mirror and the bartender

mad as hell chased him with a baseball bat

swinging at his balls and everything else,

driving him out into the street and into the path

of a bull with one horn that didn’t sound,

a new Cad a lot tougher than Joe and a lot more

valuable, and that’s the way the scales balance:

broken mirror, broken Joe.

 

 

and when I went in the next night the mirror was

still broken and Helen, fat Helen, was shaking her beer,

and I bought her a shot and I said, “Baby, I’ve got

something to show you, something like you’ve never

seen before.”

 

 

and she smiled, but it wasn’t what she was thinking.

 

 

to die with your boots on

while writing poetry

is not as glorious

as riding a horse

down Broadway

with a stick of dynamite

in your teeth,

but neither is

adding the sum total

of all the planets

named or visible

to man,

and the horse was a gray,

the man’s name was

Sanchez or Kandinsky,

it was 79 degrees

and the children kept

yelling,

hog hog

we are tired

blow us to hell.

 

 

we fought for 17 days inside that tent

thrusting and counter-thrusting

but finally she got away

and I walked outside

and spit

in the dirty sand.

 

 

Abdullah, I said, why don’t you

wash your shorts? you’ve been

wearing the same

shorts

for 17 years.

 

 

Effendi, he said, it’s the sun,

the sun cleans everything, what

went with the girl?

 

 

I don’t know if I couldn’t

please her

or if I couldn’t

catch her. she was

pretty young.

 

 

what did she cost, Effendi?

 

 

17 camel.

 

 

he whistled through his broken

teeth. aren’t you going

to catch her?

howinthehell how? can I get

my camels back?

 

 

you are an American, he said.

 

 

I walked into the tent

fell upon the ground

and held my head

within

my hands.

 

 

suddenly she burst within

the tent

laughing madly,

Americano,

Americano!

 

 

please

go away

I said quietly.

 

 

men are, she said sitting down and rolling down

her stockings, some parts titty and some parts

tiger. you don’t mind

if I roll down

my stockings?

 

 

I don’t mind, I said,

if you roll down the top

of your dress. whores are

always rolling down

their hose. please

go away. I read where

the cruiser crew passed the helmet

for the red cross; I think I’ll

have them pass it

to brace your flabby

butt.

 

 

have ’em pass the helmet twice, dad,

she said, howcum you don’t love me

no more?

 

 

I been thinking, I said,

how can Love have a urinary tract

and distended bowels?

pack up, daughter, and flow,

maneuver out of the mansions

of my sight!

 

 

you forget, daddy-o, we’re in

my
tent!

 

 

oh, christ, I said, the trivialities

of private ownership! where’s my

hat?

 

 

you were wearing a towel, dad, but

kiss me, daddy, hold me in your arms!

 

 

I walked over and mauled her breasts.

 

 

I drink too much beer, she said,

I can’t help it if I

piss.

 

 

we fucked for 17 days.

 

 

I have never seen such an animal

except perhaps once,

but that is another story—

there it stood,

no lion

yet no dog

no deer yet deer

frozen nose

and eye, all eye gathering all the

moonlight that hung in trees;

and everywhere the people slept;

I saw bombers over Brazil,

cathedrals choked in silk,

the gray dice of Vegas,

a Van Gogh over the kitchen sink.

 

 

home, I poured a drink

took off my gloves you god damned thing

why could you have not been a woman

with all your beauty,

with all your beauty

I have not found her yet.

 

 

I get on the train on the way to the track

it’s down near Dago

and this gives some space and rolling and

I have my pint

and I walk to the barcar for a couple of

beers

and I weave upon the floor—

THACK THACK THACKA THACK THACK THACKA THACK—

and some of it comes back

a little of it comes back

like some green in a leaf after a long

dryness

 

 

and the sun crashes into the barcar like a

bull and the bartender sees that

I am feeling good

he smiles a real smile and

asks—

“How’s it going?”

 

 

how’s it going? my heels are down

my shoes cracked

I am wearing my father’s pants and he died

10 years ago

I need 8 teeth pulled

my intestine has a partial blockage

I puff on a dime cigar

 

 

“Great!” I answer him,

“how you making?”

glory glory glory and the train rolls on

past the sea

past the sand and

down in between the

cliffs.