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  calling.

  Raymond asked, have you never forgotten it?

  I did for a while, but then strangely I began to

  miss the abuse …

  the butler returned carrying Raymond’s

  drink on a silver tray.

  here is your drink, sir, said the butler.

  thank you, said Raymond, taking it off the tray.

  o.k., Paul, Fuch said to the butler, you can

  start now.

  now? asked the butler.

  now, came the answer.

  the butler stood in front of Fuch and screamed:

  fucky-boy! fucky-baby! fuck-face! fuck-brain!

  where did your name come from, fuck-head?

  how come you’re such a fuck-up?

  etc….

  they all started laughing uncontrollably

  as the butler delivered his tirade in that

  beautiful British accent.

  they couldn’t stop laughing, they fell out of their

  chairs and got down on the rug, pounding it and

  laughing, Fuch, his lovely young wife and Raymond

  in that sprawling mansion overlooking the shining sea.

  I dreamt

  that I was

  in my room

  having been

  shot in the belly

  by some tart.

  snakes crawled the

  floor

  while outside

  a schoolmaster

  sang

  an old school

  song

  then

  the curtains

  went up in

  flame

  the phone

  rang

  everything

  seemed

  in a hurry

  to die

  so I

  decided to

  die

  which made all the

  bad poets

  happy

  and all the good poets

  glad

  as they

  rushed in

  to fill

  the vacancy

  then the dream

  was

  over

  I awakened

  and I was

  the Bad Boy

  of poetry

  all over

  again.

  the old couple next door

  they were an old couple

  and she slept with her

  head at one end of the

  bed

  and he with his head

  at the other

  end.

  they explained that

  in case somebody

  came in to murder

  them

  at least one of them

  would have a

  better chance to

  escape.

  when he died

  she had a stuffed replica

  made of his

  body

  and she slept with

  her head at one end

  of the bed

  and the replica’s

  head was down at the

  other.

  and just like in the

  past,

  at least once every

  night,

  she would awaken

  in a fury and

  scream,

  “STOP

  THAT

  GODDAMNED

  SNORING!”

  men without women

  finally,

  goaded by the high price of

  female relationships

  he lashed his ankles to the

  bedpoles

  and tried to reach his

  own

  penis

  with his

  mouth:

  close but no

  cigar.

  another of

  nature’s dirty

  tricks.

  finally, in a

  fury, he gave it a last

  mad

  attempt.

  something cracked in his

  back

  and a blue flame

  engulfed his

  brain.

  after 45 minutes of

  agony

  he got himself off

  the bed,

  found he couldn’t stand

  straight.

  each time he tried

  a hundred knives cut

  into both his back and

  his soul.

  the next day

  he managed to drive to

  the doctor’s

  office

  bent low over the

  steering wheel

  barely able to

  see through the

  windshield.

  “how did you do this?”

  the

  doctor

  asked.

  he told the doctor

  the honest

  truth

  because he felt

  that an informed

  diagnosis

  was the only chance

  for a complete

  cure.

  “what?” said the

  doctor. “you’re

  kidding?”

  “no, that’s what

  happened.”

  “please excuse me,

  I’ll be right

  back.”

  there was a dead

  silence.

  then he heard the

  soft laughter of

  the doctor and the

  nurse from

  behind the door.

  then it grew

  louder.

  he sat there

  looking out the office

  window: there was a park outside

  with lovely mature trees, it was

  a fine summer afternoon

  the birds were out in force and

  for some odd reason

  he longed for a shimmering bowl

  of cool wet grapes.

  the laughter behind the door

  grew softer again

  and then died out

  as he sat there

  waiting.

  the “Beats”

  some keep trying to connect me with

  the “Beats”

  but I was almost unpublished in the

  1950s

  and

  even then

  I very much

  distrusted their vanity and

  all that

  public

  posturing.

  and when I met a few of them

  later in life

  I realized that most of my original

  feelings for

  them

  hadn’t

  changed.

  some of my friends accepted

  that; others thought that I

  should change my

  opinion.

  my opinion remains the

  same: writing is done

  one person

  at a time

  one place

  at a time

  and all the gatherings

  of

  the

  flock

  have very little

  to do

  with

  anything.

  any one of them

  could have made

  a decent living as a

  bill collector or a

  used car

  salesman

  and they still

  could

  make an honest living

  instead of bitching about

  changes of fashion and

  the ways of fate.

 
but instead

  from the sad university

  lecterns

  and in the poetry halls

  these hucksters of the

  despoiled word

  are still clamoring for

  handouts,

  still talking the same

  dumb

  shit.

  hurry slowly

  when will you take to the cane,

  Chinaski?

  when will you walk that short-legged

  dog into the last

  sunset?

  that wrinkled-nosed dog

  snorting and sniffing

  before you

  as the sidewalks part

  and the ocean roars in

  bearing beautiful

  mermaids.

  straighten your back,

  the sun is rushing past

  you,

  grin at the gods,

  they only lent you the luck and the

  mirage.

  Chinaski?

  you hear me?

  the young girls of your dreams

  have grown old.

  Chinaski,

  let it go,

  the music has finished.

  Chinaski?

  Chinaski, don’t you hear

  me?

  why do you keep trying?

  nobody is watching.

  nobody cares,

  not even you.

  you are alone, Chinaski,

  and below the stage

  the seats are

  empty.

  the theatre is dark.

  why do you keep

  acting?

  what a bad

  habit.

  the air is so still,

  the air is black and still as

  you move through the last of

  yourself,

  give way, give way

  old poet,

  hanging by the last thread,

  use your courage

  write that last line,

  get out, get out, get out,

  get out, get out, get out,

  it’s easy,

  the last classic

  act.

  the coast is clear,

  now.

  hello and goodbye

  there’s no hell like your own hell,

  none can compare,

  twisting in the sheets at night,

  your ass freezing,

  your mind on fire,

  everything stupid, stupid,

  as you are stuck in your poor body and in

  your poor life

  and it’s all slowly dissolving, dissolving

  into nothing.

  like all the other bodies, like all the other

  lives,

  we all are being counted out,

  taken down

  by disease

  by just being rubbed up against

  the hard days, the harder years.

  there’s no escaping

  this,

  we just have to take it,

  accept it—

  or like most—

  not think about it.

  at all.

  shoes off and on.

  holidays come and gone.

  hello,

  goodbye.

  dress, undress.

  eat, sleep.

  drive an automobile.

  pay your taxes.

  wash under the arms and

  behind the neck

  and scrub everything

  else, for sure.

  pick your coffin ahead

  of time.

  feel the smooth wood.

  go for the soft, padded, expensive

  interior.

  the salesman will commend you

  on your good

  taste.

  then horrify him.

  tell him you want to try it for

  size.

  there’s no hell like your own

  hell and there’s nobody else

  ever

  to share it with

  you.

  you might as well be the only

  person left on earth.

  sometimes you feel as if you

  were.

  and maybe you are.

  meanwhile, pluck the lint from

  your belly button,

  accept what is,

  get laid once in a while,

  shake hands with nothing at all.

  it’s always been like this, it’s always been like

  this.

  don’t scream.

  there’s nobody left to hear

  you.

  strange things,

  strange things these cities, the trees,

  our feet walking the sidewalks,

  the blood inside us

  lubricating our

  hearts,

  the centuries finally shot apart

  as you slip on your stockings and pull them

  up over your

  ankles.

  I will never have

  a house in the valley

  with little stone men

  on the lawn.

  don’t call me, I’ll call you

  once more

  the typing is about

  finished

  poems scatter the

  floor

  this smoky room

  the radio whispers

  the symphony of a

  dead

  man

  the lamp

  looks at me

  from my

  left

  it is late

  night

  moving

  into

  morning

  I have lived

  again

  the lucky

  hours

  then the

  phone

  rings

  son-of-a-

  bitch:

  impossible!

  but my wife

  will get

  the

  phone

  perhaps

  it’s for

  her

  it can’t be

  for

  me

  I’d kill

  anybody

  who would

  spoil

  what

  the gods

  have sent

  this old

  fellow

  once

  again

  as the dark

  trees

  shake

  outside

  as death

  finally

  is a monkey

  caught

  in a

  cage.

  taking the 8 count

  “today,” says the radio announcer,

  “is Bastille Day.

  203 years ago they stormed the Bastille,”

  and that is the highlight of my day.

  I have really been burnt out lately.

  I go outside,

  undress,

  get in the pool, wrap my blue

  floater around my gut

  and water-jog.

  I feel like an old man.

  hell, I am an old man.

  when I was born it was only 132 years back to

  Bastille Day.

  now, pains in my right leg and foot make for

  a long day at the track

  and the decades cling to me like

  leeches,

  sucking my energy and

  my spirit.

  but I intend to make a comeback

  very soon.

  I need the action, the gamble.

  now I am drinking a cold beer.

  I relax and just float.

  suddenly things look better.

  the leg and foot no l
onger hurt.

  I even begin to feel good.

  I’m not done yet!

  I will remain in the arena.

  hail, Bastille Day!

  hail all the old dogs!

  hail you!

  hail me!

  that last good

  night is not yet here.

  going going gone

  my wife doesn’t see much of me

  anymore

  since she got me this computer

  for Xmas.

  I never thought anything could consume

  me like it

  has.

  the poems arrive by the

  dozens

  and yesterday there was even a decent bit

  of prose.

  I’ve now gone the complete route.

  I once hand-printed all my poems and

  stories.

  then came the manual

  typewriter.

  then the electric typer.

  and now this.

  it’s as if I have been reborn.

  I watch the words form on the

  screen

  and as I watch more and more

  words

  form.

  and, actually, the content seems

  to be

  as good as ever.

  things get said as they have

  always been said.

  only now it’s more like setting off

  firecrackers or

  exploding words into outer

  space.

  I’ve been told that the computer

  can’t write for me.

  hell, I don’t know, this thing

  seems to have a

  psyche

  all its own

  and it certainly spells