New Poems Book Three Read online

  skirts

  this Peter the bookstore

  owner

  came around and began

  crying (yes, he actually

  shed tears):

  “Hank hurt me! he

  HURT me! I was only

  FOOLING!”

  I heard cries of dismay

  from around the

  room:

  “you’re a real bastard,

  Chinaski!”

  “Peter sells your books, he

  displays them in the

  window!”

  “Peter LOVES you!”

  “O.K.,” I said, “everybody

  out! FAST!”

  sure enough, they filed

  out

  sharing their

  anger and disgust

  with one

  another.

  and

  I locked the

  door

  then

  put out the

  lights

  got myself a

  beer

  and

  sat there

  in the dark

  drinking

  alone.

  and

  I liked that

  so

  much

  that

  that’s the way

  I continued to

  live

  from then

  on.

  there were no more

  parties

  and

  after that

  the writing got much

  better

  everything got much

  better

  because:

  you’ve got to

  get rid of

  false friends and

  bloodsuckers first

  before they

  destroy

  you.

  THE 60’S

  I don’t remember much about them

  except you’d look and some guy

  might be wearing a headdress of Indian

  feathers.

  everybody was covered with beads

  and were passing joints.

  they stretched around on comfortable rugs and

  didn’t do anything.

  I don’t know how they made the rent.

  the woman I was living with was

  always telling me, “I’m going to a

  Love-In!”

  “all right,” I’d tell her.

  she’d come back and say something

  like, “I met this BEAUTIFUL BLACK

  MAN!”

  or, “we made the cops smile!

  I gave one a FLOWER!”

  I seemed to be the only person with

  an 8-hour job.

  and there were always people

  coming through the door and raiding

  my refrigerator for food and beer.

  “WE SHARE!” the woman I lived with

  told me, “WE SHARE OUR LOVE!”

  a guy would stick his face into mine.

  drunk on my beer, he’d scream:

  “YOU OUGHTA SEE THE YELLOW

  SUBMARINE!”

  “what’s that?” I asked.

  “THE BEATLES, MAN, THE

  BEATLES!”

  I thought he meant “beetles.”

  then there was somebody called

  WAVY GRAVY.

  they even talked me into going on

  an LSD trip.

  I found it to be stupid.

  “you failed,” they told me, “you failed,

  you didn’t open up.”

  “Peace!” I said, “Peace!”

  then, I don’t know, all at once

  the 60’s seemed to be

  over.

  almost everybody vanished just like

  that.

  you’d see a few of the leftovers

  now and then

  down at Venice Beach,

  standing around on corners,

  sitting on benches

  looking really washed-out,

  with very vacant stares,

  somehow astonished

  at the turn of events.

  they slept in cars,

  stole what they could

  and demanded handouts.

  I don’t know where all the others

  went.

  I think they got suits and ties

  and went looking for

  the 8-hour job.

  the 70’s had arrived.

  and that’s when I dropped out.

  and I had the whole place

  all to

  myself.

  THE WOULD-BE HORSEPLAYER

  raining, raining, raining.

  has been for days.

  I have 9 cats, the rain drives them crazy

  and then they drive me crazy.

  last night at 3:30 one of them began

  scratching to get out.

  rain and all, he wanted out.

  I put him out.

  went back to sleep.

  then at 4 a.m. the female cat who sleeps in

  the bathroom began

  mewing.

  I sat with her for 5 minutes to calm her down,

  then went back to bed.

  at 5 a.m. one of the male cats

  began scratching.

  he had gotten into the closet, found

  a bag of cat food, knocked it over and

  was trying to claw it open.

  I picked him up and put him outside.

  I went back to bed and couldn’t sleep.

  at 8 a.m. I opened a window and a door so

  some cats could get back in and some

  could get out.

  I slept until 10 a.m. when I got up and fed

  all 9 cats.

  it was time to get ready for the racetrack,

  my daily routine.

  I stood at the window and watched the rain

  still coming down.

  it was 20 miles to the track via the freeway and

  through a dangerous area—for whites and

  maybe blacks too.

  I felt sleep deprived so I decided to go back

  to bed.

  I did, went right to sleep,

  and I dreamt.

  I dreamt I was at the racetrack.

  I was at the betting window, calling my numbers.

  it was raining hard.

  I was at the racetrack.

  I kept betting and I think I cashed some tickets

  but I never saw a horse or a jockey or a horse race.

  then I awakened.

  it was still raining.

  my wife (who is an insomniac) was

  sleeping peacefully next to me and there were

  4 cats sleeping on the bed and

  one on the floor.

  we were all sleep deprived.

  I looked at the clock: 12:30, too late to make

  the track.

  I turned on my right side, looked out the

  window.

  it was still raining, heartlessly,

  hopefully, meanly, grossly, continually,

  beautifully.

  rain, rain, rain, rain, rain, rain.

  soon I was asleep again and the world continued to do

  very well without

  me.

  THE NIGHT RICHARD NIXON SHOOK MY HAND

  I was up there on the platform,

  ready to begin when

  up walked Richard Nixon

  (or his double)

  with that familiar

  glazed smile on his face.

  he approached me, reached out and

  before I could react he

  shook my hand.

  what is he doing? I thought.

  I was about to give him a verbal

  dressing down

  but before I could do so

  he suddenly faded away

  and all I could see were the

  lights shining in my eyes and

  the audience waiting down<
br />
  there.

  my hand was shaking as

  I reached out and poured myself

  a glass of vodka from the pitcher.

  I must be giving this poetry reading

  in hell, I thought.

  it was hell: I drained the glass

  but the contents somehow had turned into

  water.

  I began to read the first poem:

  “I wandered lonely as a cloud.”

  Wordsworth!

  THROWING AWAY THE ALARM CLOCK

  my father always said, “early to bed and

  early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy

  and wise.”

  it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house

  and we were up at dawn to the smell of

  coffee, frying bacon and scrambled

  eggs.

  my father followed this general routine

  for a lifetime and died young, broke,

  and, I think, not too

  wise.

  taking note, I rejected his advice and it

  became, for me, late to bed and late

  to rise.

  now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered

  the world but I’ve avoided

  numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some

  common pitfalls

  and have met some strange, wonderful

  people

  one of whom

  was

  myself—someone my father

  never

  knew.

  PRETENDERS

  nothing is worse than

  a hopelessly untalented

  entertainer.

  unlike the talented

  they have boundless

  exuberance and no

  self-doubt.

  luckily, for us,

  we seldom encounter

  one of them

  except

  sometimes

  at small parties

  or as entertainers

  in

  cheap cafes.

  you don’t have to actually

  go to hell

  to know what hell must be

  like: just looking

  at

  and listening to

  one of them

  gives you a

  good

  idea.

  there seems to be

  one simple undying

  rule:

  the worse the

  talent

  the more they

  are sure

  of

  it.

  $1.25 A GALLON

  life can be vacant like the inside of

  old shoes while dogs howl in the

  rain.

  sometimes a certain anger is necessary to

  stay alive.

  I drive into the gas station

  in my ’67 Volks and

  there’s a woman parked ahead of

  me.

  I honk

  she looks back.

  I honk again

  make a motion with my hand

  for her to get out and pour some

  gas into her tin buggy. she looks

  astonished.

  it’s a cut-rate self-serve gas station

  and

  we all suffer the long lines of

  merciless doom.

  the attendant finally comes out and

  handles her

  affairs. she tells him about me:

  I am a bastard—no style, no

  decency.

  I

  look at her ass

  decide I don’t like it

  much. she looks at my face and

  decides the same. as she

  drives off I lift the

  hood

  grab the nozzle and think,

  maybe she was out to fuck me;

  I just didn’t feel in the mood

  for it.

  when the attendant walks up

  I see by his face

  that he felt the same way.

  I pay, ask him directions

  to Beverly Hills and drive off

  into the sick drooping

  pink sun.

  FLOSS-JOB

  that dental assistant in

  Burbank

  a few years

  back

  so dedicated

  cleaning my teeth

  leaning against

  me

  her large breasts

  pressed against my arm and

  shoulder

  her eyes

  looking into

  mine

  asking

  “does this

  hurt?”

  I still think about

  her golden breasts.

  she probably told

  her girlfriends about it

  later,

  laughing her ass

  off:

  “I turned-on this old

  fuck.

  Christ, it was like

  raising the

  dead.

  his old dried dick

  waving in the

  air.

  his rotting mouth

  hoping for

  one last kiss!”

  yes, dear, it hurts

  but our dumb peasant wedding

  was greater than

  you know.

  A FRIENDLY PLACE

  went into this sushi place to eat.

  sat at the counter.

  2 fellows to my left.

  one of them asked me, “what’s

  that beer you’re drinking?”

  I told him.

  he said that his beer was better,

  that he’d buy me one.

  “no thanks,” I said.

  “how about a sake?”

  “thank you very much, but no.”

  “have you ever tried

  octopus?”

  “no.”

  “here, try some of mine.”

  “yeah, try some!” said his friend.

  “thanks, but no.”

  “no, here! here! try it!”

  he put a piece on my plate.

  I picked it up and began to chew.

  it tasted like a piece of rubber.

  “you like it?”

  “it tastes like rubber.”

  there was a pause, then

  “we live on a boat,” said the nearest

  speaker.

  “in the harbor,” said the other.

  “try some sake,” said the first.

  “no, thanks.”

  “you live on a boat?” the other

  asked.

  “no.”

  “we bought you a beer anyway,” they said,

  “here it is, try it.”

  “ah, thank you.”

  I took a hit.

  “good, yes, thank you.”

  “want some more octopus?”

  “no thanks, you’re very kind.”

  “we live on a boat,” the first said.

  I continued eating.

  “you live around here?” he

  asked.

  “yes.”

  “where?”

  “in town.”

  “where in town?”

  “near first and Bandini.”

  “you know Peaches? she lives

  on Bandini.”

  “I know her, she gives loud parties.”

  “she’s married to my brother.”

  “oh, good.”

  “Peaches is a great girl!”

  “yeah.”

  “I’m going to buy you a sake.”

  “no, thanks.”

  “how come?”

  “I drink too much, I start to roll.”

  “rock and roll?”

  “no, just roll.”

  “everybody comes to the parties on our

  boat, but when

  the food and booze are

  gone, they leave.”

  “they do?”

&nb
sp; “yeah, then we gotta do all the clean

  up ourselves!”

  a long pause.

  I continued eating, then said,

  “well, listen, thanks for the beer,

  I’ve got to go.”

  “where you going?”

  “home.”

  “we’re having a party on the boat

  tonight …”

  “good.”

  “what’d you say your name

  was?”

  “Hank,” I said.

  “I’m Bob.”

  “I’m Eddie.”

  I walked around the counter to

  pay.

  then as I walked back to exit:

  “don’t you want one for the

  road?” Bob asked.

  “no, thanks a lot, though.”

  “see you around,” said Eddie.

  “sure,” I said.

  then I was outside.

  I walked back to my car

  thinking, well, anyhow,

  now I can tell people that I

  have eaten

  octopus.

  THE OLD COUPLE

  about ten minutes before the last race they were walking

  through the parking lot to their car, he walking in front

  by a good four feet, his head turned back toward her

  as he walked and talked.

  “why did we have to sit in that crowded section?

  I never want to sit there again! I couldn’t

  concentrated!”

  and she replied, “oh, shut up, Harry.”

  he kept walking, talking with his head turned: “I TOLD you in advance

  I wouldn’t be able to CONCENTRATE there!”

  and she said,

  “oh, go on, go on, you always make some

  EXCUSE!”

  he stopped.

  she stopped. they stared at each

  other.

  “god damn it,” he said, “YOU take the car! I’m going to

  take a taxi!”

  and she said,

  “now, don’t do anything FOOLISH, don’t be

  STUPID!”

  then they started walking again with the same four feet

  of space between them.

  in the distance

  the call to post sounded for the last

  race.

  “who’d you bet in the

  9th?” she asked.

  he replied, “that’s MY own

  god-damned

  business!”

  then I started the engine of my

  car and could hear

  no more.

  WHAT?

  I was already old and hadn’t made it

  as a writer

  when a young man sitting on my couch

  asked me,

  “what do you think of Huxley living up

  in the Hollywood hills while you live down

  here?”

  “I don’t think anything about it,”

  I told him.

  “what do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean, I don’t think it has anything

  to do with anything.”

  now the young man who asked me

  that question lives up in the hills

  and I still live down here

  and I still don’t think it has anything