Another Way to Play

by Michael Lally

  all swollen & cut

  & a black & blue &

  yellow eye for sure—

  my first one—all

  the fights & scuffles

  & getting 86’d—proud

  of my clean face even

  if I’m skinny—now

  I’m proud of this—

  I was just letting my

  hair grow cause I was

  so happy to be free of

  the A. F. regulations—

  still in my pointy-toed

  shoes & tight pants—

  I didn’t know I was

  part of a movement—

  but now I got my

  badge—the next

  meeting I went to

  about Viet Nam I gave

  a little rap on being

  an ex-serviceman

  getting beat up by

  kids who hadn’t even

  voted or paid taxes or

  been drafted yet—I

  was a big hit—and

  it was all true—

  I meant it—my

  face was fucked up

  from it—my fellow

  anti-war activists

  were impressed—I needed

  a way to remember

  being fast with your

  hands wasn’t always

  the answer—any more

  I take her picture

  with her hair still

  wet & tangled &

  it’s sexy & different

  & all about how we

  see things—not in

  the magazine ads

  or latest fads—punk

  or chic or Soho elite—

  it’s about how dis-

  tracted she is & tense

  —her father’s dying

  like the rest of us

  only he knows when

  or about when & is

  fighting with nothing—

  the words of strangers—

  promises—treatments—

  operations—only to

  delay or maybe

  not even that useful—maybe

  only to offer the appearance

  of stalling the effects of

  what we know will get

  some of us—the epidemic

  of cancer—industrial

  civilization’s answer to

  our polluting the rest

  of life & the world’s

  natural forces—I don’t

  mean anymore with

  that than my own

  frustration & anger—

  shit—

  it’s like

  Mayday—

  a call for

  help—

  the Haymarket riot—

  all the dead workers

  (Mayday 1937 in Colorado

  —the film of those

  cops arriving at the

  strikers picnic to open

  fire on unarmed men,

  and women, and

  children—all that

  death—deliberate &

  against us—our

  kind—

  continues—

  and us

  against each other—

  your book again

  Harris—

  “running for cover”

  she covers her frustrations

  with the rituals of covering

  her body only to uncover

  it soon enough to lose

  it—or so I hope—

  & believe—for a while

  with mine—

  Ted says his

  “bye bye Jack”

  telegram

  aint the same

  as Duchamp’s to Picabia—

  he’s right of course—

  it’s never the same—

  Winch is an orphan—

  you’re an orphan now—

  me too—& this isn’t

  even her “real” father—

  it’s her “step-father”—

  only the only one she

  knows—& she loves

  him—& he’s dying—&

  taking some time to do it

  in—the changes making

  him mad, depressed, dis-

  tracted, determined, deadly—

  shit—does all this “art”

  really do anything to help

  me outwit my fate?—I

  wanna think I’m great—

  & sometimes do—& some-

  times you & others—

  like her & not only for

  me—but her father?—

  what can he tell me?—

  what can I do for

  him?—what does it matter

  to either of us?—with

  her between us & death

  so close—I don’t

  wanna die for a long

  time & when I do I

  want it to be gentle—

  but I know there aint

  shit I can do—my

  grandmother would say

  “If you’re born to be

  shot, you’ll never be hung”

  I wish we knew—

  only

  he knows & it must be

  driving him crazy—it’s

  getting to her—& that’s

  getting to me—&

  into this & therefore to

  you—who knows what

  I’m talking about that’s

  why I’m “talking”—not

  “walking” like I sometimes

  do—I mean in my work—

  her work—it moves me like

  the books I love—including

  yours—never do—her

  music especially—is that

  enough?—to live with &

  love & be loved by a

  person who creates music

  that few get to hear but

  me & it moves me beyond

  my greatest expectations

  for any art?—is this

  the Paradise they sing

  about in Saturday Night

  Fever or Reznikoff

  wrote of in his Adam

  & Eve in the contemporary

  city—New York in the

  ’30s?—poem? I read in

  the late ’50s & recognized

  (so have in me still as

  I will yours & all I ex-

  perience that shocks me

  with its clarity—I love

  to see the edges and the

  blurs—I’d like to be in

  Frank O’Hara’s mind when

  he’s drunk & in love & the

  city is out of focus but

  gorgeous & his—when he

  wrote those things—some

  of them—I was drunk

  too & in love & wandering

  the same streets—a kid—

  away from Jersey & home—

  immersed in my romantic

  self-pity & incredibly in-

  telligent perceptions about

  life & wages of concern &

  sensitivity—it was the

  ’50s—you were in the

  Bronx maybe?—or on

  the same Manhattan

  streets—I slept in the

  park, walked in the

  rain, was afraid of

  anyone as graceful &

  erudite as O’Hara or

  I can be sometimes now—

  & she—

  she was getting to know

  her new dad—jealous of

  him & his son—she was

  a little kid already

  planning her escape—

  while we were practicing

  ours—

  this time three

  years ago I came

  back—to the

  city—for good—

  (drove my Toyoto back to

  D.C. to my ex-wife’s

  house—who hasn’t driven

  in 15 years—& gave her

  the car
keys & title—letting

  my license expire—through

  with my “ace” driving days—

  & I loved driving in the

  city—that’s what I’d do

  now—if it was then—

  drive around for a few

  hours, shifting gears hard

  & fast, outflanking

  traffic, judging tight

  spaces like a cat, feeling

  the limits with my

  shoulders as if I were

  the car—I loved driving

  —making love to the

  street with my body-

  machine—but I love

  so much else I had to

  give it up—I was

  coming out the other

  end anyway brother

  & dig it—we are too

  often the ones who die

  first or use it up fast

  or never get to it—

  not me—

  I want to do it all

  once as fast and intense as I can

  & then move on—

  but

  I’m here now—back

  where I started or

  started starting—

  & 3 moves later in 3 years

  it’s Mayday, the

  anniversary of my

  farewell to D.C. where

  I “came out” not only

  as a lover of men but

  a lover of men who loves

  women in all those ways

  as well and did so

  first and will always—

  I dont know what that

  means—it confuses me

  too—but I know I feel

  good about feeling good

  about me & loving the

  way she smells &

  moves & feels & lets me

  get close as I can—

  I loved it sometimes with the men—

  but not as easily—as

  gracefully—as romantically

  —that’s it—there was too

  much cynicism & con-

  fusion there—& not just

  dope—that’s maybe

  the thing I’ve clung to

  most—turned on the

  first time by a black

  dude at the Figaro

  Cafe—McDougal &

  Bleecker—in 1959—I was

  17—always in love—

  romantically with

  women—brotherly

  with men—

  Charles Wicks

  —“Charlie”—“Cochese”—

  the football star of

  my youth—Columbia

  High—when I was in

  grammar school—the

  toughest spade in town—

  maybe the toughest

  period—no white guy

  ever tried—he was

  beautiful—from a

  poor family, with a

  wife like a picture &

  all the women he

  could do—& he did—

  & told me how he did

  & who & what I should

  do & I was already doing

  by the time we were

  friends in 1957 or 58—

  in 1972 I realized how

  much I loved that dude—

  & saw him again then—

  a little paunchy &

  pushing 40—me just

  30 & newly into my

  own beauty—so late—

  but in time goddamnit

  in time—

  Charles was so

  sweet—but always noble

  & generous & offhand in

  his easy masculinity & pride

  —I never knew a kinder

  man—he helped me see

  that kindness could be

  more than rules & gestures—

  & so did you—& I hardly

  know you—& maybe it

  isn’t always true—but

  it made me think of

  all this & you in it—

  it’s the first Mayday in

  12 years I haven’t done

  something to commemorate—

  & now I have—thank you

  NYC April 28-May 2 1978

  PATTERNS

  assembly line breaks—

  the critic combing our cells as though on the

  table’s keys, wallet (worn)

  coins, comb, did not

  imply empty pockets or

  empty (clean) ashtray non-

  smoker or extra tidy guest—

  the bad tasting, worse

  smelling water (only

  matched by the dogs here)—

  empty case for eyeglasses—someone reading or watching

  TV—or writing in a note-

  book the choices of a career

  in self-observational anti-

  cipation—life—like that—

  making a lamp out of a

  milk can in Virginia—

  out near the mountains—

  kids at the swimming hole

  of 1978 using the language

  of the beatnik bar of 1958—

  a hairbrush—a Christopher Isherwood book (early and

  relatively obscure)—the

  sudden burst of ’60s “rock”

  from outside competing with

  the river (“born under a bad

  sign”)—dirty socks—crickets in gangs—the nastiness of

  flying ants—the “pleasures” of the country life outweighed

  by the inconveniences for

  those addicted to the “pleasures”

  of city life—open doorway

  to adjoining bathroom that

  serves the teenaged daughter’s room as well—more

  aged than teened—not old but

  older—her yellow bathing-suit and big boned girlishness—

  the remnant’s of a doper’s life—

  the single wildflower in the cut

  glass vase—the blues base of

  most rock—tiresome “black”

  derivation—unlike the real country origins of non-

  blacks—sun supporting

  somehow the haze that defuses its explosive

  impact on everything here—

  more trees than people in Manhattan—no more horizons

  outside the stereo or TV and

  those all inside now—the

  end of a century before it

  has ended—we look up once

  before—

  4.4.80

  ex-wife in semi-coma

  daughter moves in for good

  joins brother and father

  reluctant (she) to accept

  her mother no longer able

  to be her mother as she

  has been, though, whatever

  “brain damage” means

  her father doesn’t even

  try to explain or use

  these terms, instead

  “won’t get much better”

  “why me?” asks son

  then spends days making

  “sick” jokes about death

  and brain damage, though

  no one mentioned either

  in his presence, and

  he’s the younger though

  raised in New York City

  with father these years

  where dreams keep father

  going despite despair

  and recognition confusion

  (is he gay or what? no,

  he’s sensitive and at times

  super-sensual to the point

  of not caring what’s

  different or the same—

  is he any good or what?

  so much potential etc.)

  38 going on 17, 10 going

  on 50 (the son) 12 going

  on 6 going on 80 going on,

  whoever survives survives,

  it doesn’t seem to matter

  how, only who, we
all

  make do, you’ll never

  understand who or how

  though try, please try,

  I got a why that won’t

  quit, though my ex-wife

  didn’t always like it

  and now she’s shit fucking

  fighting for some fraction

  of a life she used to have

  and everything is different

  even in my dreams, I

  don’t know shit & can’t

  compete even with myself

  anymore, just let me do

  it once the way I meant

  to be remembered, she

  seems to have, despite

  whatever got between us

  & I hardly knew, so

  fucking scared & hungry.

  LOST ANGELS

  for Peggy Feury

  We are the generation of lost

  angels. We rarely feel these

  days like we have anything new

  to do or say & yet our lives

  are totally changed, even from

  what they were a year ago, three

  months ago, yesterday, trying

  to finally be honest about our

  feelings about each other’s fame

  & glory, while still trying to

  get or forget our own, as Billy

  Idol sings and the expression

  “thrillsville” is recycled in

  some teenaged woman’s bed, or

  “oh my god” we did that too

  the way rocknroll connects us

  with the folks we never knew,

  maybe spoiling us for joy &

  hope & honest bullshit as we

  once said to people who were

  “naturals” like ourselves before

  we disillusioned on the anti-

  antis . . . like wanting to be a

  movie star forever despite the

  rocknroll & dope & beatniks

  who still can’t finesse the

  necessary kind of classic

  heroism we all continue to

  love, like the idols of the

  silver screen we injected

  directly into the limelight

  of our brains and hearts for

  smarts the schoolrooms dis

  possessed and all the rest;

  we don’t expect too much, just

  freedom from the assholes we

  suspect have been enthralled

  by their own egos making money

  off ours.

  We don’t wanna go crazy & die

  in some nuthouse with no teeth

  like Antonin Artuad, the world’s

  first poet movie star and father

  of whatever wave obsesses us now

  in the New York-L.A.-Berlin-Paris-

  Tokyo-Melbourne-London scene that

  is the unbraining of Hollywood’s

  being influenced by us! (the obvious

  vice versa has been feeling our

  brains since we mainlined Marilyn

  & Marlon) & what about the “blues”

  of John Wayne? That’s how we

  survived. And now it’s all one,

  the sum of our music and movie

  influences spread across the

  globe for anyone to use as in

  “the new technology” which has

  been in our cells since “action”

  was a label for painting and