New Poems Book Three Read online

  sucker.

  A HELL OF A DUET

  we were always broke, rescuing the Sunday papers out of

  Monday trashcans (along with the refundable soft drink bottles).

  we were always being evicted from our old place

  but in each new apartment we would begin a new existence,

  always dramatically behind in the rent, the radio

  playing bravely in the torn sunlight, we lived like millionaires, as if

  our lives were blessed, and I loved her high-heeled shoes and her sexy

  dresses, and also how she laughed at me

  sitting in my torn undershirt decorated with

  cigarette holes: we were some team, Jane and I, we sparkled through

  the tragedy of our poverty as if it was a joke, as if it

  didn’t matter—and it didn’t—we had it by the throat and we were

  laughing it to death.

  it was said afterwards that

  never had been heard such wild singing, such joyful singing of

  old songs

  and never

  such screaming and cursing—

  breaking of glass—

  madness—

  barricaded against the landlord and the police (old pros, we were) to

  awake in the morning with the couch, chairs and dresser pushed up against the

  door.

  upon awakening

  I always said, “ladies first …”

  and Jane would run to the bathroom for some minutes and then

  I’d have my turn and

  then, back in our bed, both of us breathing quietly, we’d wonder what

  disaster the new day would bring, feeling trapped, slain, stupid,

  desperate, feeling that we had used up the last of our luck, certain we were finally

  out of good fortune.

  it can get deep-rooted sad when your back is up against the wall first

  thing each morning but we always managed to work our way past all

  that.

  usually after 10 or 15 minutes Jane would say,

  “shit!” and I would say,

  “yeah!”

  and then, penniless and without hope we’d figure out a

  way to

  continue, and then somehow we would.

  love has her many strange ways.

  THE DOGS

  the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk

  in the sun and in the

  rain and in the dark and in the

  afternoon

  the dogs quickly walk down the sidewalk and they know something

  but they won’t tell us

  what it is.

  no

  they aren’t going to tell us

  no no no

  they aren’t going to tell us

  as

  the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk.

  it’s all there to be seen

  in the sun and the rain and in the dark

  the dogs walking quickly down the sidewalk

  watch them watch them watch them

  with the eye and with the heart

  as the dogs walk quickly down the sidewalk

  knowing something we will never comprehend.

  PART 3.

  death will come on padded feet

  carrying roses in its mouth.

  COLD SUMMER

  not as bad as it could be

  but bad enough: in and out

  of the hospital, in and out of

  the doctor’s office, hanging

  by a thread: “you’re in

  remission, no, wait, 2 new

  cells here, and your

  platelets are way down.

  have you been drinking?

  we’ll probably have to take

  another bone marrow test

  tomorrow.”

  the doctor is busy, the

  waiting room in the cancer

  ward is crowded.

  the nurses are pleasant, they

  joke with me.

  I think that’s nice, joking while in the

  valley of the

  shadow of death.

  my wife is with me.

  I am sorry for my wife, I am

  sorry for all the

  wives.

  then we are down in the

  parking lot.

  she drives sometimes.

  I drive sometimes.

  I drive now.

  it’s been a cold summer.

  “maybe you should take a

  little swim when we get home,”

  says my

  wife.

  it’s a warmer day than

  usual.

  “sure,” I say and pull out of

  the parking lot.

  she’s a brave woman, she

  acts like everything is

  as usual.

  but now I’ve got to pay for all

  those profligate years;

  there were so many of

  them.

  the bill has come due

  and they’ll accept only

  one final

  payment.

  I might as well take a

  swim.

  CRIME DOES PAY

  the rooms at the hospital went for

  $550 a day.

  that was for the room alone.

  the amazing thing, though, was that

  in some of the rooms

  prisoners were

  lodged.

  I saw them chained to their beds,

  usually by an

  ankle.

  $550 a day, plus meals,

  now that’s luxury

  living—plus first-rate medical attention

  and two guards

  on watch.

  and here I was with my cancer,

  walking down the halls in my

  robe

  thinking, if I live through this

  it will take me years to

  pay off the hospital

  while the prisoners won’t owe

  a damned

  thing.

  not that I didn’t have some

  sympathy for those fellows

  but when you consider that

  when something like a bullet

  in one of your buttocks

  gets you all that free attention,

  medical and otherwise,

  plus no billing later

  from the hospital business

  office, maybe I had chosen

  the wrong

  occupation?

  THROWING MY WEIGHT AROUND

  at 5:30 a.m. I was

  awakened by this hard sound,

  heavy and hard, rolling on the linoleum

  floor.

  the door opened and something entered the

  room which was still

  dark.

  it looked like a large cross but

  it was only a beam scale.

  “gotta weigh you,” said the nurse.

  she was a big black woman,

  kindly but determined.

  “now?” I asked.

  “yes, honey, come on, get on the

  scale.”

  I got off the bed and made my way over

  there.

  I got on.

  I had trouble with my balance.

  I was ill, weak.

  she moved the weights back and

  forth trying to get a

  read.

  “let’s see … let’s see … hmmm …”

  I was about to fall off when

  she finally said, “185.”

  the next morning it was a male

  nurse, a good fellow, a bit on the

  plump side.

  he rolled in and I stepped on the

  scale.

  he had a problem too, sliding the weights

  back and forth, trying to get a

  read.

  “I can hardly stand,” I said.

  “just a little longer,�
�� he said.

  I was about to topple off when he

  said, “184.”

  I went back to bed and

  awaited the scheduled 6 a.m. daily

  blood withdrawal.

  something has to be

  done, I thought.

  I’m going to fall off of that

  scale some morning and crack

  my head open.

  so at midday I got into

  a conversation with the head nurse

  who listened to my problem.

  “well, all right,” she said, “we

  won’t weigh you every

  morning, we’ll only weigh you

  3 times a week, Monday,

  Wednesday and

  Saturday.”

  I thanked her.

  “I’ll write an order on your

  chart,” she said.

  I don’t know what she wrote

  on my chart

  but they never weighed me

  again

  Monday, Wednesday,

  Saturday

  or any other day and I was there

  in that hospital

  for another two

  months.

  in fact, I never heard the hard sound

  of that scale rolling down the hallway

  again.

  I think they stopped weighing

  everybody

  except maybe themselves

  now and then.

  Christ, the damned thing was

  just too difficult to operate

  anyhow.

  THEY ROLLED THE BED OUT OF THERE

  the nurse was standing with her back to me,

  saying, “I’ve got to get the air bubbles out of

  the line.”

  I began to cough and I coughed some more,

  then I began to tremble, tremble and

  shake and jump.

  I couldn’t breathe, my face was burning

  but the worst was my back, right down at the

  end of the spine—the pain was black and

  unendurable

  and the next thing I knew was

  the sound of loud buzzers

  and they were rolling the bed out

  of there, there were 5 or 6 female nurses,

  there was an oxygen tank and then I was

  breathing again, the tubes stuck in my

  nostrils.

  they rolled me down to a large room

  across from the nurses’ station and it was

  like in a movie, I was hooked up to a

  machine that had little blue lines

  dancing across the screen.

  “do you still need oxygen?” one of

  the nurses asked.

  “let’s try it without.”

  it was all right then.

  “how much is this room costing me?”

  I asked.

  “don’t worry, we’re not charging

  anything extra.”

  after a while they came in with a

  portable machine and x-rayed

  me.

  “how long am I going to be in this

  room?”

  “overnight or until somebody needs

  it more than you do.”

  then my wife was there.

  “my god, I went to your room

  and it was empty, bed and all!

  why are you here?”

  “they haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “there must be a reason.”

  “sure.”

  well, I wasn’t dead and my wife

  sat and watched the little lines

  dance on the screen

  and I watched the nurses

  answering the phones and

  reading things on clipboards

  and actually it was rather

  pleasant and almost

  interesting, although there was

  no tv in the room and I was

  going to miss the Sumo tournament

  on channel

  18.

  the next day the doctors said

  they had no idea what had

  caused the whole thing

  and the nurses took my bed

  and rolled me back to my

  old room with the tiny window,

  my trusty

  urinal, and the little Christ

  they had nailed to the wall

  after my 3rd day

  there.

  CRAWL

  the streets melt, I do not

  smile often, I hold up these trembling white

  walls.

  the finish line beckons

  while

  the stables are full of fresh, young

  runners.

  the crowd screams for more action

  as I don my green

  bathrobe,

  x-tough guy

  dangling at the end of the

  dream.

  anything to say to the world,

  sir?

  no.

  would you do it all over again?

  no.

  have you learned anything

  from this experience?

  no.

  any advice for the young

  poets?

  learn to say “no.”

  I really know nothing at all.

  the hospital spins like a top,

  spewing nurses throughout the

  building.

  I have escaped twice before

  and now is the third

  time.

  slow death is pure

  death, you can taste a little bit of it

  each day.

  I am amazed that other people

  remain alive and healthy:

  doing their duties,

  bored and/or beastly.

  they swarm about,

  fill the streets and buildings.

  these are the fortunate

  unfortunates.

  I stretch out upon the bed.

  my poor wife, she must live with

  this.

  she is a strong, good

  woman.

  “you’re going to be fine,”

  she says.

  and so are:

  the blue whale, the sleepy young

  doctors practicing their vascular

  and bariatric surgery, the simple

  dark tone of

  midnight.

  I’ll see them all later in the forest along with the

  giant

  gorilla.

  NOTHING HERE

  so much of my early life I was worried about paying

  the rent, now something else is trying to move

  me out of here, permanently,

  and this landlord will accept no

  excuses such as

  “I’ll pay you next week for sure!”

  notice has been served on me

  and my final eviction looms.

  but as in the old days, I continue,

  go through the motions,

  read the newspaper, stare at the walls

  and wonder, wonder

  how did it ever come to this,

  this senselessness staring me down.

  all my books don’t help.

  my poems don’t help either.

  nothing or nobody helps.

  it’s just me alone, waiting, breathing,

  pondering.

  there’s nothing even to be brave about.

  there’s nothing here at all.

  MY LAST WINTER

  I see this final storm as nothing very serious in the sight of

  the world;

  there are so many more important things to worry about

  and to

  consider.

  I see this final storm as nothing very special in the sight of

  the world

  and it shouldn’t be thought of as special.

  other storms have been much greater, more dramatic.

  I see this final storm approa
ching and calmly

  my mind waits.

  I see this final storm as nothing very serious in the sight of

  the world.

  the world and I have seldom agreed on most

  matters but

  now we can agree.

  so bring it on, bring on this final storm.

  I have patiently waited for too long now.

  FIRST POEM BACK

  64 days and nights in that

  place, chemotherapy,

  antibiotics, blood running into

  the catheter.

  leukemia.

  who, me?

  at age 72 I had this foolish thought that

  I’d just die peacefully in my sleep

  but

  the gods want it their way.

  I sit at this machine, shattered,

  half alive,

  still seeking the Muse,

  but I am back for the moment only;

  while nothing seems the same.

  I am not reborn, only

  chasing

  a few more days, a few more nights,

  like

  this

  one.

  A SUMMATION

  more wasted days,

  gored days,

  evaporated days.

  more squandered days,

  days pissed away,

  days slapped around,

  mutilated.

  the problem is

  that the days add up

  to a life,

  my life.

  I sit here

  73 years old

  knowing I have been badly

  fooled,

  picking at my teeth

  with a toothpick

  which

  breaks.

  dying should come easy:

  like a freight train you

  don’t hear when

  your back is

  turned.

  WALKING PAPERS

  Dear Sir or Madam:

  we must inform you that there is no room

  left here for you now

  and you must leave

  despite all your years of faithful service

  and the courage you showed on many

  occasions,

  and despite the fact that many of your fondest dreams

  have yet to be realized.

  still, you were better than most,

  you accepted adversity without complaint,

  you drove an automobile carefully,

  you served your country and your employers well,

  your compassion for

  your unloving spouse and

  care less children

  never wavered,

  you never farted in public,

  you refused to exhibit rancor,

  you were acceptably normal, fairly understanding and rarely

  foolish,

  you also remembered all birthdays, holidays and special

  occasions,

  you drank but never to excess,

  you seldom cursed,

  you lived within all the rules you never made,