grinning: “well, what you guys
waiting for?”
the other guy, Jack, he passed me
the tequila bottle and I took a
hit and passed it back and he
took a hit.
Lance looked at us: “I’ll be
in the car, sleeping it
off.”
Jack and I waited until he was
gone
then started walking toward the
exit.
Jack was wearing this big
sombrero
and right at the exit was an
old whore sitting in a
chair.
she stuck out her leg
barring our
way: “come on, boys, I’ll make
it good for you and
cheap!”
somehow that scared the
shit out of Jack and he
said, “my god, I’m going to
PUKE!”
“NOT ON THE FLOOR!” screamed
the whore
and with that
Jack ripped off his
sombrero
and holding it
before him
he must have puked a
gallon.
then he just stood there
staring down
at it
and the whore
said, “get out of
here!”
Jack ran out the door with
his sombrero
and then the whore
got a very kind look upon her
face and said to me:
“cheap!” and I walked
into a room with her
and there was a big fat man
sitting in a chair and
I asked her, “who’s
that?”
and she said, “he’s here to
see that I don’t get
hurt.”
and I walked over to the
man and said, “hey, how ya
doin’?”
and he said, “fine,
señor…”
and I said,
“you live around
here?”
and he said, “give
her the
money.”
“how much?”
“two dollars.”
I gave the lady the two
dollars
then walked back to the
man.
“I might come and live
in Mexico some day,” I
told him.
“get the hell out of
here,” he said,
“NOW!”
as I walked through the
exit
Jack was waiting out there
without his
sombrero
but he was still
wavering
drunk.
“Christ,” I said, “she was
great, she actually got my
balls into her
mouth!”
we walked back to the car.
Lance was passed out, we
awakened him and he drove us
out of
there
somehow
we got through the border
crossing
and all the way
driving back to
L.A.
we rode Jack for being a
chickenshit
virgin.
Lance did it in a gentle
manner
but I was loud
demeaning Jack for his lack of
guts
and I kept at it
until Jack passed out
near
San Clemente.
I sat up there next to
Lance as we passed the last
tequila bottle back and
forth.
as Los Angeles rushed toward
us
Jack asked, “how was
it?”
and I answered
in a worldly
tone: “I’ve had
better.”
starting fast
we each
at times
should
remember
the most
elevated
and
lucky
moment
of
our
lives.
for me
it
was
being
a
very young
man
and
sleeping
penniless
and
friendless
upon a
park
bench
in a
strange
city
which
doesn’t say
much
for all
those
many
decades
which
followed.
the crazy truth
the nut in the red outfit
came walking down the street
talking to himself
when a hotshot in a sports car
cut into an alley
in front of the nut
who hollered, “HEY, DOG DRIP!
SWINE SHIT! YOU GOT PEANUTS FOR
BRAINS?”
the hotshot braked his sports
car, backed toward the nut,
stopped,
said: “WHAT’S THAT YOU SAID,
BUDDY?”
“I said, YOU BETTER
DRIVE OFF WHILE YOU CAN,
ASSHOLE!”
the hotshot had his girl in the
car with him and started to
open the door.
“YOU BETTER NOT GET OUT OF THAT
CAR, PEANUT BRAIN!”
the door closed and the sports car
roared
off.
the nut in the red outfit then
continued to walk down the
street.
“THERE AIN’T NOTHIN’ NOWHERE,”
he said, “AND IT’S GETTING TO BE
LESS THAN NOTHING ALL THE
TIME!”
it was a great day
there on 7th Street just off
Weymouth
Drive.
drive through hell
the people are weary, unhappy and frustrated, the people are
bitter and vengeful, the people are deluded and fearful, the
people are angry and uninventive
and I drive among them on the freeway and they project
what is left of themselves in their manner of driving—
some more hateful, more thwarted than others—
some don’t like to be passed, some attempt to keep others
from passing
—some attempt to block lane changes
—some hate cars of a newer, more expensive model
—others in these cars hate the older cars.
the freeway is a circus of cheap and petty emotions, it’s
humanity on the move, most of them coming from some place they
hated and going to another they hate just as much or
more.
the freeways are a lesson in what we have become and
most of the crashes and deaths are the collision
of incomplete beings, of pitiful and demented
lives.
when I drive the freeways I see the soul of humanity of
my city and it’s ugly, ugly, ugly: the living have choked the
heart
away.
for the concerned:
if you get married they think you’re
finished
and if you are without a woman they think you’re
incomplete.
a large portion of my readers want me to
keep writing about
bedding down with madwomen and
streetwalkers—
also, about being in jails and hospitals, or
starving or
puking my guts
out.
I agree that complacency hardly engenders an
immortal literature
but neither does
repetition.
for those readers now
sick at heart
believing that I’m a contented
man—
please have some
cheer: agony sometimes changes
form
but
it never ceases for
anybody.
a funny guy
Schopenhauer couldn’t abide the masses,
they drove him mad
but he was able to say,
“at least, I am not them.”
and this consoled him to some
extent
and I think one of his most humorous writings
was when he expostulated against some man who
uselessly cracked his whip
over his horse
completely destroying a thought process
Arthur was involved
in.
but the man with the whip was a part of the
whole
no matter how seemingly useless and
stupid
and once great thoughts
often with time
become useless and
stupid.
but Schopenhauer’s rage was so
beautiful
so well placed that I laughed
out loud
then
put him down
next to Nietzsche
who was also
all too
human.
shoes
when you’re young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting
alone
in the closet
can fire your
bones;
when you’re old
it’s just
a pair of shoes
without
anybody
in them
and
just as
well.
coffee
I was having a coffee at the
counter
when a man
3 or 4 stools down
asked me,
“listen, weren’t you the
guy who was
hanging from his
heels
from that 4th floor
hotel room
the other
night?”
“yes,” I answered, “that
was me.”
“what made you do
that?” he asked.
“well, it’s pretty
involved.”
he looked away
then.
the waitress
who had been
standing there
asked me,
“he was joking,
wasn’t
he?”
“no,” I
said.
I paid, got up, walked
to the door, opened
it.
I heard the man
say, “that guy’s
nuts.”
out on the street I
walked north
feeling
curiously
honored.
together
HEY, I hollered across the
room to her,
DRINK SOME WINE OUT OF
YOUR SHOE!
WHY? she
screamed.
BECAUSE THIS USELESSNESS
NEEDS SOME
GAMBLE!
I yelled
back.
HEY, the guy in the next
apartment beat on the
wall, I’VE GOT TO GET UP
IN THE MORNING AND GO
TO WORK SO FOR CHRIST’S
SAKE, SHUT
UP!
he damn near broke the wall
down and had a most
powerful
voice.
I walked over to
her, said, listen, let’s
be quiet, he’s got some
rights.
FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE!
she screamed
at me.
the guy began pounding
on the wall
again.
she was right and he was
right.
I walked the bottle over
to the window and
looked out into the
night.
then I had a good roaring
drink
and I thought, we are all
doomed
together, that’s all there is
to
it. (that’s all there was
to that particular drink, just
like all the
others.)
then I walked
back to her and
she was asleep in
her
chair.
I carried her to
the bed
turned out the
lights
then sat in the
chair by the
window
sucking at the
bottle, thinking,
well, I’ve gotten
this far
and that’s
plenty.
and now
she’s sleeping
and
maybe
he can
too.
the finest of the breed
there’s nothing to
discuss
there’s nothing to
remember
there’s nothing to
forget
it’s sad
and
it’s not
sad
seems the
most sensible
thing
a person can
do
is
sit
with drink in
hand
as the walls
wave
their goodbye
smiles
one comes through
it
all
with a certain
amount of
efficiency and
bravery
then
leaves
some accept
the possibility of
God
to help them
get
through
others
take it
straight on
and to these
I drink
tonight.
close to greatness
at one stage in my life
I met a man who claimed to have
visited Pound at St. Elizabeths.
then I met a woman who not only
claimed to have visited
E.P.
but also to have made love
to him—she even showed
me
certain sections in the
Cantos
where Ezra was supposed to have
mentioned
her.
so there was this man and
this woman
and the woman told me
that Pound had never
mentioned a visit from this
man
and the man claimed that the
lady had had nothing to do
with the
master
that she was a
charlatan.
and since I wasn’t a
Poundian scholar
I didn’t know who to
believe
but
one thing I do
k
now: when a man is
living
many claim relationships
that are hardly
so
and after he dies, well,
then it’s everybody’s
party.
my guess is that Pound
knew neither the lady or the
gentleman
or if he knew
one
or if he knew
both
it was a shameful waste of
madhouse
time.
the stride
Norman and I, both 19, striding the streets of
night…feeling big, young young, big and
young
Norman said, “Jesus Christ, I bet nobody
walks with giant strides like we do!”
1939
after having listened to
Stravinsky
not long
after,
the war got
Norman.
I sit here now
46 years later
on the second floor of a hot
one a.m. morning
drunk
still big
not
so young.
Norman, you would
never guess
what
has happened to
me
what
has happened to
all of
us.
I remember your
saying: “make it or
break it.”
neither happened and
it
won’t.
final story
god, there he is drunk again
telling the same old stories
over and over again
as they push him for
more—some with nothing
else to do, others
secretly snickering
at this
great writer
babbling
drooling
in his little white
rat
You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense Page 6