cup and hurled it
into the
street.
the man sighed
heavily.
then carrying the
organ
and dragging the
monkey
he walked out
into the street and
picked up the
cup.
“you stay out of this
neighborhood!”
my father
yelled.
“this is a free
country, I can go
anywhere!”
the man yelled
back.
“yeah?
get your ass out of
here or I’m going to
kick it
out!”
“you and whose
army?” the organ
grinder
asked.
“my army! I
served in World War
One!
where were
you?”
the monkey was
straining at the
end of his
leash, pulling
against it,
he was
choking.
the man picked
it up, kissed it,
put it on his
shoulder.
“you’ve upset
my monkey,”
he said.
“be glad that’s
all,”
said my
father.
the organ grinder
walked off
with the monkey
on his
shoulder.
my father walked
back into the
house,
slamming the
door.
we watched
the man and the
monkey.
they reached
the end of
the block.
then they turned
the corner and
were
gone.
we all just stood
there.
nobody said
anything.
then somebody
said, “well, the
monkey’s gone,
let’s do something
else.”
“what?”
“I don’t know…”
there were five of
us.
we turned and
began walking
down the
sidewalk, the
other
way.
something would
turn
up.
Whistler
she said, “all of a sudden
someone arrived.
he was called just
‘Edgar’…
he was a post-Impressionist
painter,
dressed all in black.
it was stunning.
he was wearing a black
hat with a large
brim.
he was wearing a
rather high collar and a
lavaliere, the kind
that only artists
wear.
and he had a black
cape, was dressed
like Whistler.
he was probably in his
60s
but he was a most
handsome man.
he was bringing a huge
bouquet—c’était à la mode
des violettes de Palmes—
the violets from Palma—
which are pale violets,
and he cut a
fantastic figure.”
when everybody left
I said to my grandmother,
“Who was that man?”
and she said, “Ah,
he is an
Artist.”
when my grandmother said
that,
she meant “Ah,
mais oui, c’était une artiste!”
and I answered right away,
“Ah, moi aussi.”
oh, Jesus or somebody
help us, help us, help
us,
save us from
these,
the centuries have
reeked with them.
no wonder the animals
are what we consort
with,
no wonder we sleep
away the
nights.
the pleasures of the damned
the pleasures of the damned
are limited to brief moments
of happiness:
like the eyes in the look of a dog,
like a square of wax,
like a fire taking the city hall,
the county,
the continent,
like fire taking the hair
of maidens and monsters;
and hawks buzzing in peach trees,
the sea running between their claws,
Time
drunk and damp,
everything burning,
everything wet,
everything fine.
those marvelous lunches
when I was in grammar school
my parents were
poor
and in my lunch bag there was
only a peanut butter sandwich.
Richardson didn’t have a
lunch bag,
he had a lunch pail with
compartments, a
thermos full of
chocolate milk.
he had ham sandwiches,
sliced beef sandwiches,
apples, bananas, a
pickle and a large bag of
potato chips.
I sat next to Richardson
as we ate.
his potato chips looked
so good—
large and crisp as the
sun blazed upon
them.
“you want some potato
chips?” he would
ask.
and each day
I would eat some.
as I went to school each
day
my thoughts
were on Richardson’s
lunch, and especially
those chips.
each morning as we
studied in class
I thought about
lunch time.
and sitting next to
Richardson.
Richardson was the
sissy and the other
boys looked down
on me
for eating with
him
but I
didn’t care.
it was the potato
chips, I couldn’t
help myself.
“you want some
potato chips, Henry?”
he would
ask.
“yes.”
the other boys got
after me
when Richardson
wasn’t
around.
“hey, who’s your
sissy friend?
you one
too?”
I didn’t like that
but the potato
chips were more
important.
after a while
nobody spoke to
me.
sometimes I ate
one of Richardson’s
apples
or I got half a
pickle.
I was always
hungry.
Richardson was
fat,
he had a big
belly
and fleshy
thighs.
he was the only
friend I had in
grammar
school.
we seldom spoke
to each
other.
/>
we just sat
together at
lunch time.
I walked home with
him after school
and often some of
the boys would
follow us.
they
would gather around
Richardson,
gang up on him,
push him around,
knock him
down
again and
again.
after they were
finished
I would go
pick up his lunch
pail,
which was
spilled on its
side
with the lid
open.
I would place the
thermos back
inside,
close the
lid.
then I would
carry the pail as
I walked Richardson
back to his
house.
we never spoke.
as we got to his door
I would hand him
the lunch
pail.
then the door would
close and he would
be gone.
I was the only friend
he had.
sissies live a hard
life.
panties
hell, I don’t know how old I was,
maybe 7,
and Lila lived next door to me,
she was, maybe 6, and one day
she was standing in her yard
and she looked at me
and lifted her dress and showed
me her panties.
something about it looked good
to me and I stared
and then she let her dress
fall back down and she walked
off.
“Lila,” I yelled, “come back!”
she didn’t.
but thereafter
every day when she
saw me
she would lift her dress and
show me her panties.
they were a nice clean white
and fitted snugly.
then she would let her dress
fall back down and walk off
again.
one day I was in the back
yard and 3 kids
I had never seen before
came running in
and started swinging their
fists at me.
I surprised myself, I
fought back well, in
fact I gave 2 of them
bloody noses and they
ran off.
but the bigger kid
remained and we
kept fighting.
he began to slowly
wear me down.
he backed me up against
the fence
and I was catching
3 punches to each
one I threw.
his hands were much
larger than mine
and he was very
strong.
then there was a
dull thump.
somebody had hit
him over the
head with something,
a large bottle.
it was Lila.
she hit him
again
and he ran from the
yard
yowling and holding
his head.
“thanks, Lila,” I said,
“show me your
panties.”
“no,” she said.
she walked
back to her house
and went inside.
I saw her many times
after that in her
yard.
I’d ask her,
“show me your
panties, Lila.”
but she always
said, “no.”
then her family
sold their house and
moved away.
I never quite
understood what it all
meant
and still
don’t.
the dead flowers of myself
bulls strut in pinwheel glory,
rockets stun the sky,
but I don’t know
quite what to make
of the dead flowers
of myself,
whether to dump them
out of the bowl
or
press them between
these blank pages
and go on;
well, all grief comes down
to hard death
and weeping finally ends.
thank the god
who made
it.
me against the world
when I was a kid
one of the questions asked was,
would you rather eat a bucket of shit
or drink a bucket of piss?
I thought that was easy.
“that’s easy,” I said, “I’ll take the
piss.”
“maybe we’ll make you do both,”
they told me.
I was the new kid in the
neighborhood.
“oh yeah,” I said.
“yeah!” they said.
there were 4 of them.
“yeah,” I said, “you and whose
army?”
“we won’t need no army,” the
biggest one said.
I slammed my fist into his
stomach.
then all 5 of us were down on
the ground fighting.
they got in each other’s way
but there were still too many
of them.
I broke free and started
running.
“sissy! sissy!” they yelled.
“going home to mama?”
I kept running.
they were right.
I ran all the way to my house,
up the driveway and onto the
porch and into the
house
where my father was beating
my mother.
she was screaming.
things were broken on the floor.
I charged my father and started swinging.
I reached up but he was too tall,
all I could hit were his
legs.
then there was a flash of red and
purple and green
and I was on the floor.
“you little prick!” my father said,
“you stay out of this!”
“don’t you hit my boy!” my mother
screamed.
but I felt good because my father
was no longer hitting my
mother.
to make sure, I got up and charged
him again, swinging.
there was another flash of colors
and I was on the floor
again.
when I got up again
my father was sitting in one chair
and my mother was sitting in
another chair
and they both just sat there
looking at me.
I walked down the hall and into
my bedroom and sat on the
bed.
I listened to make sure there
weren’t any more sounds of
beating or screaming
out there.
there weren’t.
then I didn’t know what to
do.
it wasn’t any good outside
and it wasn’t any good
inside.
so I just sat there.
then I saw a spider making a web
in the window.
I found a match, walked over,
lit it and burned the spider.
then I felt better.
much better.
the snails
my mother stood at the
window
watching my father
in the back
yard.
he was bent over in the
flower garden,
very still, very
intense.
“what’s he doing out
there?” my mother
asked me.
“I don’t know.”
“look, he hasn’t moved,
he’s like a
statue!”
“yes.”
“I’m going to see what
he’s doing!”
I watched her walk out
into the yard,
she walked up very
quietly
behind him.
then she screamed.
she came running
into the house,
screaming,
“my god, my god,
my god!”
“what’s wrong?”
I asked.
“What’s wrong?
What’s wrong?
He was watching
two snails doing it
to each other!”
she screamed a long
and horrible scream.
the tears were rolling
down her face.
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