or you—of who—“whom”—
will too be in the tomb
of memory some day—
I remember thinking
I was just a sexier
Jesus—only it all
depended on my hair—
I’d look in the mirror
and say—hey you look
so good today you better
get out there and share
it—with who?—you—
only you couldn’t bear
what you thought was
conceit and I couldn’t
find that way that some
heroes have of being
full of themselves and
endearing about it—
so then I’d have to
shout it out & turn
into some kind of fool
—a tool of my own
confused emotions tearing
around inside me—up
and down the stairs from
my heart to my head
like a cat you almost
wish dead because you’re
in bed trying to get
your last night of sleep
in the Berkshires and
it won’t let you, so
full of— [ . . . ]
I just don’t have the heart
for it anymore—sometimes
I can’t find myself in any
of it—I don’t mean not
fit I mean not there—as
if my shame & fear have the
power to make me disappear even
from my own memory—see—
I’m back in L.A. again—but
this time it’s a cold wind that’s
blowing the brown air away
today & there’s no way my
life will stay mean to me—
It’s St. Valentine’s day anyway
& I got a date with a stranger
I want to break—for the
first time in my life—there’s
no one I really want to take
out tonight—I’d like to
just spend it at home—
alone—writing this poem
and reading it—I hope that’s
not a sign of—
[ . . . ]
& lo, he went into the
valley of death, the desert
of loneliness, where the people
were old & nurtured a deep
and cranky bitterness & hurt
like a child alone in the world
& he said things in his enthusiasm
& they heard him with their
need to be left alone & right—
& in the night it was cold
but in the day the light was old
& the tones were deep with the
memory of the world created
alone with itself & the tones
of creation that immortalized
death as if it was her child
but when she smiled it was
an old lady on her toes as
though she still could dance
& then she did and it enhanced
this valley with a meaning
no one could have thought of
except her & for 20 years
every Friday, Saturday &
Monday nights her aging
city high bred body took
flight on the stage she
had created & with all
her might she transformed
the thoughts inside their
graying heads to visions that
the lives they fled were
richer than they had remembered—
& he too felt transformed
as though his mistakes were
signs of an awkward grace
this place entranced & made
light of—
[ . . . ]
“of” is the barometer of
my trust in you in all
this—& I do trust you—
obviously—how else explain
me still playing this poetry
game—going on fifty—
with all expectation of fame
behind me—
sort of
[ . . . ]
night of the living airports—
Kennedy to LaGuardia for
another missed connection
that was 3 hours late but
once we were in the air in
this “flying crate” that
held only a handful of us
stuffed together like eggs in
a cardboard carton & I still
felt great sitting behind the
pilots watching their instruments
glow in the night especially
the altimeter on the far right
spinning as we climbed to the
right height for the bulk of
the flight & then spinning
wildly the other way as we
descended into Albany where
my “little girl” now 22 waited
with her “beau” as my sisters
still used to say when I was
a kid sort of kidding with
that term from another day
the way my mother & grand-
mother did with them when
they’d tease about it being
“Thursday” & how that was
“beau night” & they didn’t
have a date & therefore would
grow up to be old maids who
everybody knew just sit
& wait for the “beau” who
never comes like in that Katherine
Anne Porter story my friend
directed once for PBS where
I didn’t play the “beau” although
she told me I had eyes that
would glow through the screen &
make this character work in
ways no other man could—but—
we’ve all heard stuff like that
& wondered why we ended up
without the fate those compliments
led us to believe was our right,
like my sisters did when they
finally went out on “beau
night” & caught the guy of their
dream, or maybe someone else’s
so they wouldn’t end up old
maids like Dustin Hoffman
almost did in “Tootsie”—& me
here in the Ramada Inn in
Bennington Vermont not too
far from where I began this
“poem” in Monterey, Mass where
she & he are getting ready to drive
over tonight to hear my daughter
sing for us in ways that
have had her “depressed” for
days out of fear she won’t
get the “feelings” right the
way her instructors have
taught her to & pointed
out to her when she
doesn’t—& I’m here
trying to think of something
I can do to make it
easier for her besides laying
in bed writing down what’s
going on in my head in
ways that tie it all
together with the theme
of—
[ . . . ]
she called to say she
was thinking about her
mother all day & really
sad she wasn’t there to
see her “triumph”—well,
that’s my word—she was
just sorry her mother
couldn’t live to hear
her sing for an audience
that loved it—& I heard
the sadness of my own
heart—in my daughter’s—
& I don’t know what to
do or say to make it
go away—she says
she finally feels like an
that means I must be
too—this way
we have of—
[ . . . ]
& then tonight there was a fight
between two women like the old days
on the street only this was a poet &
her one time friend while mine
stayed behind & I couldn’t stop
thinking about all these beautiful
“Black” women & the ways they wake
me up to the full spectrum of
possibilities—oh shit I wish I
still played horn—I taught my
cousin after I taught myself—
a way to make 50 more cents a
week on top of the money from
my paper route—I already played
trumpet & piano & sang & I
knew I was gonna go down
as the best, the baddest,
the most def, the saint of
music that told the truth—
I see how it turned out
so far—no saint—but
now & then in touch with
an angel inside—not the
angel of truth—too elusive
& perfect for most of us—
but not the angel of fear
either—or of lust or of
hesitation or of bluff or
of anger or hype or of meanness
& pride & ego & judgment—
not even the angel of
love, as much as I try—
or of grief or relief or even
rhyme—no,—but maybe
in time the angel of—
“of”
“The whole struggle is to squeeze into that public record some tiny essence of the perpetual inner melody.”
—Henry Miller (Plexus)
some tiny essence
of
IT’S NOT NOSTALGIA
(Black Sparrow Press 1999)
IT’S NOT NOSTALGIA—IT’S ALWAYS THERE
for Harris Schiff
they’re so good to
look at, standing
in the bath tub,
towel around the
hair, powder in
hand, making all
the soft stuff
softer—
there’s only
them & us & the
others, but the others
don’t count, except
when they’re always
getting in the way—
once outside of
Greenville, South Carolina,
in 1962, two black guys
picked me up hitchin
on the highway drunk
at 3AM & after some
jiving & juicehead
boasts & fantasies
they took me to some
old shack—woke up the
grumbling ancient black lady
who sold the “dog bite”
& watched me down a
big kitchen tumbler full
& then smile before I passed out
In Greenville I played
piano at “The Ghana”
—“the South’s largest
colored resort” with
a troupe that did the
Southern Soul circuit
—Baby June & the
Swinging Shepherds—15
performers—musicians &
dancers—June played the
trumpet & sang & was a
tough dude but affectionate
& protective boss—I met
him when he got salty
at my white presence
& I, pretending to ignore it,
asked him what the
name of one of the foxy
dancers was cause I had
to meet her she was so
fine—eventually he
hired me to be the crazy
white boy piano player
running onto the stage with
the rest of them—screaming
in sequined “waiters jackets,”
cummerbunds, crazy colored
show clothes doing a crazy
colored show—with one crazy
white boy pounding
the ivories, standing up,
jumping, dancing while
I comped those chords
and felt the joy of
being my own love
affair with music as
the romance of my air—
the audiences loved it—
I would out sblib the
sblibs & stay in the
background to do it
cause in fact I couldn’t
hold a musical candle to
those wonderful motherfuckers
I wish I had hung on to
that outfit—
Sidney
Bechet was corny to me
then—though like “Pops”
he was great anyway—
now I can fuck to the music of both,
digging how close they
came to turning it all
around with just their
sound—shit—aint
that what the ladies
do to me & you?—
turning us around too?—
Mayday means a lot to me
—processions with a
statue of Our Lady &
the girls in white dresses
scattering flowers all
the way—speeches by
the priests against the
Commies who were
having their own parades—
and theirs all started in
Chicago & the fight for
the 8-hour-day—ours in
the forests of Europe &
the worshipping of May
as the start of the good
times of Spring & Summer
—fucking in the woods
all day—
dreaming—
like
you in the Southwest
where I’d be so scared
& was when the sheriff
& his boys stopped me
outside Needles in my
van looking for the
Manson family &
suspecting us!—my
hippie friends & wife
& baby—
guns drawn—
“everybody out with
your hands up!”
—where’s Alice & her
bigtime Needles father?
nobody here but us
& these hungry looking
special deputies—I’m
so cold I stick my hands
in my bell bottoms
& some nervous kid’s
gun starts shaking
at me!
“get’em
up!”—& I do—
holy shit—they mean
it—I’m the father—
the owner of the van—
the one who sensed the
trouble coming before
the guy driving—I
demand a fucking
explanation—
“we’re
looking for some hippie
murderers—now get
back in this thing &
get the fuck outa
here”—
you fucker
—I’m a taxpayer &
one time I ran
for sheriff myself—
only I’ m
also soft & sensitive
& tired of all the
rough stuff—I’m
going home—
only
that’s been 24
places in the 18 years
since I left my first home
for good—
she’s outa
the tub
& into
my life
again &
this is the
one I want
to stay in�
��
it’s your book did it
Harris—
so distant
from my life
but—
goddamit I
love the truth
as we see it
unfolding our moments alone
to share
just out of the Air Force
in 1966 walking down
the main street of a
midwest farm & college
town a bunch of local
boys drive up to where
me & my wife are
strolling & start calling
me names I thought
I’d left behind—“What!?”
I yell, half an ice
cream popsicle in my
hand, the wrapper in
my other hand, both
out a few inches from
my sides—unthreatening
alone with my bride
of two years—I’m 24
& glad to be free of
court martials & brown
shoe reactionaries riding
herd—or trying to—on
me—& now these cow
town boys are piling
out of their old Chevie
to my amazement
not believing they really
were cursing at me—
I dont even know them!
I think—nobody would
take this kind of chance
in a city—I might
be packing a piece!
ready to dust these
dudes off the earth—
only they been watchin
TV too & one big blond
boy punches me right
in the face—only I dont
go down, I just bounce
back a little on my
feet while he looks
surprised & I drop my
popsicle & paper &
go crazy—grab him
by the hair and
start banging his
head on the fender
of a nearby car—
another, older guy
jumps on my back
yelling “Leggo my
brother” & me screaming
back, not letting go,
“Whadda ya mean,
let go? He just hit
me!”—fraternity jocks
& their dates are out of
the local bars to see
the commotion & out
of the Chevie comes
the smallest & oldest
guy—older than me—
maybe as old as I am
now—35—& he coaxes
the boys back into the
car & I see there’s four
of them—goddamn!—
I’m glad it’s the main
street!—they pull
off and as they do
the one who hit me
leans out & curses me
again—just then a
cop walks up—my
wife, almost hysterical
starts screaming at him
to do something about
what just happened—
he listens then looks at
me & says “Well, with
hair like that, whadda ya
expect?”—& walks
away—Lee cursing him
all the way—
—at home I check the
mirror—it looks
worse—much worse—
than it feels—it’s
Another Way to Play Page 22