the pretty girl who rented rooms down in New Orleans this young pretty girl showed me a room for rent and it was dark in there and we stood very close and as we stood there she said, “the room is $4.50 a week.” and I said, “I usually pay $3.50.” as we stood there in the dark I decided to pay her $4.50 because maybe I’d see her in the hall once in a while and I could not understand then why women had to be like she was they always waited for you to give a sign to make the first move or not to make the first move and I said, “I’ll take the room,” and I gave her the money although I could see that the sheets were dirty and the bed wasn’t made but I was young and a virgin, frightened and confused and I gave her the money and she closed the door behind her and there was no toilet and no sink and no window. the room was damp with suicide and death and I undressed and lay down on the bed and I lived there a week and I saw many other people in the hall old drunks people on relief crazy people good young people dull old people but I never saw her again. finally I moved around the corner to a new place for $3.50 a week run by another female a 75-year-old religious maniac with bad eyes and a limp and we didn’t have any trouble at all and there was a sink and a window in the room.
too soon this dutchman in a Philly bar put 3 raw eggs in his beer before he took a drink. 71, he was. I was 23 and sat 3 barstools away burning sorrows. I held my head in all its tender precious agony and we drank together. “feelin’ bad, kid?” he asked. “yeh. yeh. yeh.” “kid,” he said, “I’ve slept longer than you’ve lived.” a good old man he was soothing gold and too soon dead.
scene from 1940: “I knew you were a bad-ass,” he said. “you sat in the back of Art class and you never said anything. then I saw you in that brutal fight with the guy with the dirty yellow hair. I like guys like you, you’re rare, you’re raw, you make your own rules!” “get your fucking face out of mine!” I told him. “you see?” he said. “you see?” he disgusted me. I turned and walked off. he had outwitted me: praise was the only thing I couldn’t handle.
the railroad yard the feelings I get driving past the railroad yard (never on purpose but on my way to somewhere) are the feelings other men have for other things. I see the tracks and all the boxcars the tank cars the flat cars all of them motionless and so many of them perfectly lined up and not an engine anywhere (where are all the engines?). I drive past looking sideways at it all a wide, still railroad yard not a human in sight then I am past the yard and it wasn’t just the romance of it all that gives me what I get but something back there nameless always making me feel better as some men feel better looking at the open sea or the mountains or at wild animals or at a woman I like those things too especially the wild animals and the woman but when I see those lovely old boxcars with their faded painted lettering and those flat cars and those fat round tankers all lined up and waiting I get quiet inside I get what other men get from other things I just feel better and it’s good to feel better whenever you can not needing a reason.
the sensitive, young poet I never realized then what a good time I was having smoking cheap cigars, in my shorts and undershirt. proud of my barrel chest and my biceps and my youth, my legs, “baby, look at my legs! ever seen legs like that?” prancing up and down in that hotel room. I was giving her a show and she just sat there smoking cigarettes. she was nasty, a looker but a nasty looker. I knew that she would say something vicious but I would laugh at her. she had seen me make a whole barfull of men back down one night. each night was about the same, I’d put on my show for her, I’d tell her what a great brain I had. “you’re so fucking smart, what’re you doing living in a hole like this?” “I’m just resting up, baby, I haven’t made my move yet…” “bullshit! you’re an asshole!” “what?” “you’re an asshole!” “why, you wasted whore, I’ll rip you in half!” then we’d go at it, swearing loudly, throwing things, breaking things, the phone ringing from the desk downstairs, the other roomers banging on the walls and me laughing, loving it, picking up the phone, “all right, all right, I’ll keep her quiet…” putting the phone down, looking at her, “all right, baby, come on over here!” “go to hell! you’re disgusting!” and I was, red-faced, cigarette holes burnt in my undershirt, 4-day beard, yellow teeth, broken toenails, grinning madly I’d move toward her, glancing at the pull-down bed, I’d move toward her saying, “hike your skirt up! I want to see more leg!” I was one bad dude. she stayed 3 years then I moved on to the next one. the first one never lived with another man again. I cured her of that.
the first one after she died I met her son in her room a very small room without sink or toilet in a flophouse at Beverly and Vermont. he was thinking what kind of boyfriend are you to let her die in a place like this? and I was thinking, what kind of a son are you? he asked me, do you want any of her things? no, I said. well, he said, we’ll give them to Goodwill. he left. there was a large bloodstain on the bottom sheet. the owner of the hotel walked in. she said, I’ll have to change that sheet before I can rent this room to somebody else. o.k., I said. I left. I walked down to the florist and ordered a heart-shaped arrangement, large, for the funeral. just say on the card, I told the lady, from your lover. no name. no name? no name. cash or credit card? cash. I paid and walked out on the boulevard and never looked back.
DEATH COMES SLOWLY LIKE ANTS TO A FALLEN FIG.
may this night never see morning
some notes on Bach and Haydn it is quite something to turn your radio on low at 4:30 in the morning in an apartment house and hear Haydn while through the blinds you can see only the black night as beautiful and quiet as a flower. and with that something to drink, of course, a cigarette, and the heater going, and Haydn going. maybe just 35 people in a city of millions listening as you are listening now, looking at the walls, smoking quietly, not hating anything, not wanting anything. existing like mercury you listen to a dead man’s music at 4:30 in the morning, only he is not really dead as the smoke from your cigarette curls up, is not really dead, and all is magic, this good sound in Los Angeles. but now a siren takes the air, some trouble, murder, robbery, death… but Haydn goes on and you listen, one of the finest mornings of your life like some of those when you were very young with stupid lunch pail and sleepy eyes riding the early bus to the railroad yards to scrub the windows and sides of trains with a brush and oakite but knowing all the while you would take the longest gamble, and now having taken it, still alive, poor but strong, knowing Haydn at 4:30 a.m., the only way to know him, the blinds down and the black night the cigarette and in my hands this pen writing in a notebook (my typewriter at this hour would scream like a raped bear) and now somehow knowing the way warmly and gently finally as Haydn ends. and then a voice tells me where I can get bacon and eggs, orange juice, toast, coffee this very morning for a pleasant price and I like this man for telling me this after Haydn and I want to get dressed and go out and find the waitress and eat bacon and eggs and lift the coffee cup to my mouth, but I am distracted: the voice tells me that Bach will be next: “Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F major,” so I go into the kitchen for a new can of beer. may this night never see morning as finally one night will not, but I do suppose morning will come this day asking its hard way— the cars jammed on freeways, faces as horrible as unflushed excreta, trapped lives less than beautiful love, and I walk out knowing the way cold beer can in hand as Bach begins and this good night is still everywhere.
lifedance the area dividing the brain and the soul is affected in many ways by experience— some lose all mind and become soul: insane. some lose all soul and become mind: intellectual. some lose both and become: accepted.
everywhere, everywhere amazing, how grimly we hold onto our misery, ever defensive, thwarted by the forces. amazing, the energy we burn fueling our anger. amazing, how one moment we can be snarling like a beast, then a few moments later, forgetting what or why. not hours of this or days or months or years of this but decades, lifetimes completely used up, given over to the pettiest rancor and hatred. finally there is nothing here for death to take away.
about a trip to Spain in New York in those days they had a system at the track where you bought a ticket and tried to pick 5 winners in a row and Harry took $1000 and went up to the window and said, “1, 8, 3, 7, 5.” and that’s the way they came in and so he took his wife to Spain with all that money and his wife fell for the mayor of this little village in Spain and fucked him and the marriage was over and Harry came back to Brooklyn broke and mutilated and he has been a little crazy ever since, but Harry, don’t despair for you are a genius for who else had enough pure faith and enough courage to go up to the window and against all the gods of logic say to the man at the window: “1, 8, 3, 7, 5”? you did it. yes, she got the mayor but you’re the real winner forever.
the word on the page. the word should be like butter or avocados or steak or hot biscuits, or onion rings or whatever is really needed. it should be almost as if you could pick up the words and eat them.
Bruckner listening to Bruckner now. I relate very much to him. he just misses by so little. I ache for his dead guts. if we all could only move it up one notch when necessary. but we can’t. I remember my fight in the rain that Saturday night in the alley with Harry Tabor. his eyes were rolling in that great dumb head, one more punch and he was mine— I missed. or the beautiful woman who visited me one night, who sat on my couch and told me that she was “yours, a gift…” but I poured whiskey, pranced about bragged about myself and finally after returning from the kitchen I found her gone. so many near misses. so many other near misses. oh, Bruckner, I know! I am listening to Bruckner now and I ache for his dead guts and for my living soul. we all need something we can do well, you know. like scuba diving or opening the morning mail.
this moment it’s a farce, the great actors, the great poets, the great statesmen, the great painters, the great composers, the great loves, it’s a farce, a farce, a farce, history and the recording of it, forget it, forget it. you must begin all over again. throw all that out. all of them out you are alone with now. look at your fingernails. touch your nose. begin. the day flings itself upon you.
I was once a man content to be alone. now I have been broken open, everything has edges. they have me—crazed and trapped.
I have given my pain a name. I call it “Assault.” Assault, I say, will you please go out for a walk and leave me alone? will you please go out for a walk and get run over by a train?
I turn around, roll myself a cigarette, light it, stand in front of my air cooler and feel unjustifiably cheated. but I suppose she gives that same feeling to a hundred men a day.
butterflies I believe in earning one’s own way but I also believe in the unexpected gift and it is a wondrous thing when a woman who has read your works (or parts of them, anyhow) offers her self to you out of the blue a total stranger. such an offer such a communion must be taken as holy. the hands the fingers the hair the smell the light. one would like to be strong enough to turn them away those butterflies. I believe in earning one’s own way but I also believe in the unexpected gift. I have no shame. we deserve one another those butterflies who flutter to my tiny flame and me.
things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.
guess who? she passed from one important man to another, from bed to bed from man to man all of them society’s important men: politicians, athletes, artists, lawyers, doctors, entertainers, producers, financiers, and they all gave her one thing or another: gifts, money, publication, publicity and/or the good life. but when she suddenly died at 32 the only ones at her funeral were an aunt from Virginia her bookie her dope dealer a bartender an alcoholic neighbor and several hired hands at the graveyard. but she held 2 final aces and had the last laugh: she’d never worked an 8 hour day and they buried her with all the gold in her teeth.
morning love I awakened about 10:30 a.m. Sunday morning and I sat straight up in bed and I said, “o, Jesus Christ!” and she said, “what’s the matter, Hank?” and I said, “it’s my car. do you remember where we parked last night?” and she said, “no, I don’t.” and I said, “well, I think there’s something strange going on.” and I got dressed and went out on the street. I was worried. I had no idea where the car was and I walked up my street and down the next street and I didn’t see it. I have love affairs with my cars and the older they are and/or the longer I have them the more I care. this one was an ancient love. —then three blocks to the west I saw it: parked dead center in the middle of a very narrow street. nobody could enter the street or leave it. my car sat there calmly like a forgotten drunk. I walked over, got in, put the key in, and it started. there was no ticket. I felt good. I drove it to my street and parked it carefully. I walked back up the stairway and opened the door. “well, is your car all right?” she asked. “yeah, I found it,” I said, “guess where it…” “you worry too much about that god-damned car!” she snapped. “did you bring back any 7-Up, any beer? I need something now!” I undressed and got back into bed and pushed my fat ass up against her fat belly and never said another word.
we needed him so big, with a cigar sticking out of his mouth he listened patiently to the people to the old women in the neighborhood who told him about their arthritis and their constipation or about the peeping toms who looked in at their wrinkled bodies at night breathing heavily outside the blinds. he had patience with people he knew something as he sat at the taco stand and listened to the cokeheads and the meth-heads and the ugly whores who then listened carefully to him he was the neighborhood he was Hollywood and Western even the pimps with their switchblades stood aside when he walked by. then it happened without warning: he began to get thin. he came to my door and asked if I had some oranges. he sat in my chair looking weak and sad, he seemed about to cry. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I can’t eat. I puke it all up.” I told him to go to the doctors. he went to the Vet’s Hospital, he went to Queen of Angels, he went to Hollywood Presbyterian. he went to other stranger places. I went to see him the other day. he had moved out of the neighborhood. he sat in a chair. discarded milk cartons were on the floor, empty beef stew cans, empty Kentucky Colonel boxes, bags of uneaten french fries and the stale stink. “you need a good diagnostician,” I said.” “it’s no use,” he said. “keep trying…” “I’ve found,” he said, “that I can drink buttermilk and it stays down.” we talked some more and then I left. now the old women ask me, “where is he? where is your friend?” I don’t think he wants to see them. I’ll always remember him when there was trouble around this place running out of his apartment in back himself large and confident in the moonlight, long cigar in mouth ready to right what needed to be set right. now it’s simple and clear that he waits as alone as a man can get. even the devil has company, you know. the old ladies stay inside the taco stand has lost its lure and when the police helicopter circles over us in the night and the searchlight invades our windows illuminating the blinds it doesn’t matter like it used to matter. it’s as simple and clear as that.
the dangerous ladies they come visit and sit across from me and talk and their voices are very loud and they laugh too much and soon I have a headache as they tell me about their men how they had to throw this one out and how the other one tried to kill himself when they left him, and they talk on smiling laughing nodding and most of them are a little bit heavy and a little bit blonde and after they leave I think about the men who needed them: those are the kind of men who would consider turning on the gas if they lost their jobs as stock boys at Sears-Roebuck. those are men who need women like they once needed their mothers. those are men who need loud laughing wenches of little spiritual or physical attraction. and the women feast on those men like candy like peanuts like sunflower seeds and throw away the wrappers and shells as they tell others of their womanly conquests while holding a warm can of Coors in one hand and a Marlboro in the other.
hunchback moments of agony and moments of glory march across my roof. the cat walks by seeming to know everything. my luck has been better, I think, than the luck of the cut gladiolus, although I am not sure. I have been loved by many women, and for a hunchback of life, that’s lucky. so many fingers pushing through my hair so many arms holding me close so many shoes thrown carelessly on my bedroom rug. so many searching hearts now fixed in my memory that I’ll go to my death, remembering. I have been treated better than I should have been— not by life in general nor by the machinery of things but by women. but there have been other women who have left me standing in the bedroom alone doubled over— hands holding the gut— thinking why why why why why why? women go to men who are pigs women go to men with dead souls women go to men who fuck badly women go to shadows of men women go go because they must go in the order of things. the women know better but often chose out of disorder and confusion. they can heal with their touch they can kill what they touch and I am dying but not dead yet.
beast my beast comes in the afternoon he gnaws at my gut he paws my head he growls spits out part of me my beast comes in the afternoon while other people are taking pictures while other people are at picnics my beast comes in the afternoon across a dirty kitchen floor leering at me while other people are employed at jobs that stop their thinking my beast allows me to think about him, about graveyards and dementia and fear and stale flowers and decay and the stink of ruined thunder. my beast will not let me be he comes to me in the afternoons and gnaws and claws and I tell him as I double over, hands gripping my gut, jesus, how will I ever explain you to them? they think I am a coward but they are the cowards because they refuse to feel, their bravery is the bravery of snails. my beast is not interested in my unhappy theory—he rips, chews, spits out another piece of me. I walk out the door and he follows me down the street. we pass the lovely laughing schoolgirls the bakery trucks and the sun opens and closes like an oyster swallowing my beast for a moment as I cross at a green light pretending that I have escaped, pretending that I need a loaf of bread or a newspaper, pretending that the beast is gone forever and that the torn parts of me are still there under a blue shirt and green pants as all the faces become walls and all the walls become impossible.
I used to be a hermit. a hot woman can pull a man right out of his shell. right out of his skin if she wants to.
nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen stupefied after a week’s drinking and gambling bout I am in the tub at 10:30 in the morning shaky depressed when the phone rings and it’s this young girl who sings folk songs; she’s quit with her man thrown his clothes out, she tells me. I tell her how those things work— you’re together then split together then split over and over again. yeh, she says, wanna hear my new song? sure, I say, and she sings it to me over the telephone. now I am sitting on the edge of the couch naked, wet, listening, thinking, damn I’d like to stick it into you, baby, and I laugh, the song is funny, and I say I like it, and she says, I’m glad. and I say, look, I’ve got to shape up and make the track. keep in touch. I will, she says. then I have a couple of Alka Seltzers and an hour later I leave, and 6 hours later I have lost five hundred dollars. when I get in I walk over to the phone pick it up then put it back down. nobody wants to hear your troubles, I think, and that young girl doesn’t want an old man. I turn on the radio and the music is very gloomy. I turn it off, undress, go to the bedroom pull down the shades and turn out all the lights and get into bed and stare at the blackness, stone cold crazy once again.
her dog’s eyes were more lovely than those of any woman I have ever known.
I have been in that body a few times never enough times, of course, but I consider my luck sufficient.
let her have others then she’ll know who’s best at heart. otherwise she’ll likely consider herself unduly trapped.
the icecream people the lady has me temporarily off the bottle and now the pecker stands up better. however, things change overnight— instead of listening to Shostakovitch and Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke the nights change, new complexities: we drive to Baskin-Robbins, 31 flavors: Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint… we park outside and look at the icecream people a very healthy and satisfied people, nary a potential suicide in sight (they probably even vote) and I tell her “what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they find out I’m going in for a walnut peach sundae?” “come on, chicken,” she laughs and we go in and stand with the icecream people. none of them are cursing or threatening the clerks. there seem to be no hangovers or grievances. I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave that flows about. I feel like a leper in a beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and sit in the car and eat them. I must admit they are quite good. a curious new world. (all my friends tell me I am looking better. “you’re looking good, man, we thought you were going to die there for a while…”) —those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the hospitals… and later that night there is use for the pecker, use for love, and it is glorious, long and true, and afterwards we speak of easy things; our heads by the open window with the moonlight looking through, we sleep in each other’s arms. the icecream people make me feel good, inside and out.
I guess what makes me feel better are the truly sane: the motorcycle cop in a clean uniform who gives me a ticket and then rides away on two wheels like a man who never had an itchy crotch.
the young man on the bus stop bench he sits all day at the bus stop at Sunset and Western his sleeping bag beside him. he’s dirty. nobody bothers him. people leave him alone. the police leave him alone. he could be the 2nd coming of Christ but I doubt it. the soles of his shoes are completely gone. he just laces the tops on and sits and watches traffic. I remember my own youthful days (although I traveled lighter) they were similar: park benches street corners tarpaper shacks in Georgia for $1.25 a week not wanting the skid row church hand-outs too crazy to apply for relief daytimes spent laying in public parks bugs in the grass biting looking into the sky little insects whirling above my head the breathing of white air just breathing and waiting. life becomes difficult: being ignored and ignoring. everything turns into white air the head fills with white air and as invisible women sit in rooms with successful bright-eyed young men conversing brilliantly about everything your sex drive vanishes and it really doesn’t matter. you don’t want food you don’t want shelter you don’t want anything. sometimes you die sometimes you don’t. as I drive past the young man on the bus stop bench I am comfortable in my automobile I have money in two different banks I own my own home but he reminds me of my young self and I want to help him but I don’t know what to do. today when I drove past again he was gone I suppose finally the world wasn’t pleased with him being there. the bench still sits there on the corner advertising something.
the crunch (2) too much too little or too late too fat too thin or too bad laughter or tears or immaculate unconcern haters lovers armies running through streets of pain waving wine bottles bayoneting and fucking everyone or an old guy in a cheap quiet room with a photograph of Marilyn Monroe. there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of a clock’s hands. there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in blinking neon in Vegas, in Baltimore, in Munich. people are tired strafed by life mutilated either by love or no love. we don’t need new governments new revolutions we don’t need new men new women we don’t need new ways we just need to care. people are not good to each other one on one. people are just not good to each other. we are afraid. we think that hatred signifies strength. that punishment is love. what we need is less false education what we need are fewer rules fewer police and more good teachers. we forget the terror of one person aching in one room alone unkissed untouched cut off watering a plant alone without a telephone that would never ring anyway. people are not good to each other people are not good to each other people are not good to each other and the beads swing and the clouds obscure and dogs piss upon rose bushes the killer beheads the child like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone while the ocean comes in and goes out in and out in the thrall of a senseless moon. and people are not good to each other.
and my mind won’t think of anything at all then I
when I can’t sleep and my mind won’t think of anything at all then I spend the night looking up at the dark ceiling.
insanity sometimes there’s a crazy one in the street. he lifts his feet carefully as he walks. he ponders the mystery of his own anus. while the American dollar collapses against the German mark he’s thinking of Bette Davis and her old movies. it’s good to bring thought to bear on things arcane and forbidden. if only we were crazy enough to be willing to ignore our mechanical and static perceptions we’d know that a half-filled coffee cup holds more secrets than, say, the Grand Canyon. sometimes there’s a crazy one walking in the street. he slips past walks with a black crow on his shoulder is not worried about alarm clocks or approval. however, almost everybody else is sane, knows the answers to all the unanswerable questions. we can park our automobiles carve a turkey with style and can laugh at every feeble joke. the crazy ones only laugh when there is no reason to laugh. in our world the sane are too numerous, too submissive. we are instructed to live lives of boredom. no matter what we are doing— screwing or eating or playing or talking or climbing mountains or taking baths or flying to India we are numbed, sadly sane. when you see a crazy one walking in the street honor him but leave him alone. stand out of the way. there’s no luck like that luck nothing else so perfect in the world let him walk untouched remember that Christ also was insane.
farewell my lovely she keeps coming back with different men I am introduced and I feel sorry for them sitting there in their pants and shirts and stockings and shoes looking out of their heads with their eyes hearing with their ears speaking out of their mouths I feel sorry for them for she is finally going to do to them just what she did to me. she hates men but captures and tortures them with her beautiful, youthful body. the last time she was over she followed me into the kitchen leaving him sitting alone out there. “I miss you,” she said, “I really do. I mean it.” I knew what she missed. she missed having a man securely caught in her net. I stepped around her with the drinks and walked back into the other room. she watched me with her eyes as she continued to talk. she had watched me go crazy with the agony of losing her so many times before. now she knew I was free and when the victim escapes the executioner it is hell for the executioner. she felt it. she said to him, “let’s get out of here.” they left and began to walk away toward the street. I noticed she had left her coat, the one with the dark hood. “hey!” I shouted, “you left your coat!” she ran back to the door: “oh, thank you!” she said taking the coat with one hand and with the other hand behind the door where he couldn’t see she gave me the finger, vigorously. I closed the door. it hadn’t been too bad they hadn’t used up much of my time at most maybe fifteen minutes.
that the man should be as durable as his art, that’s what they want, they want the impossible: creation and creator to be as one. this is the dirty trick of the ages.
I hear all the latest hit tunes somewhere in whatever neighborhood there’s some guy at 10:30 in the morning sunday morning monday morning any morning washing and polishing his car with the radio on LOUD so that the entire neighborhood is compelled to listen to the music that he is listening to but it’s all right because we surely don’t want him to be bored out there; it’s going to take him hours. they’d arrest a drunk or a panhandler as a public nuisance but this boy is a respectable citizen and it’s the respectable citizens that our culture is built upon and whom the music is written for. if I murdered him no court in America would forgive my courage. meanwhile he circles his car with the hose plus a bucket of suds. he’s safe he’s fearless look at him there almost as handsome as that twittering bluejay and at least 4 women are in love with him and he deserves them all and I hope he gets them all. it’s the only way we can teach that son-of-a-bitch what suffering is.
as for women, you didn’t know enough early enough and you knew enough too late.
to lean back into it like in a chair the color of the sun as you listen to lazy piano music and the aircraft overhead are not at war. where the last drink is as good as the first and you realized that the promises you made yourself were kept. that’s plenty. that last: about the promises: what’s not so good is that the few friends you had are dead and they seem irreplaceable. as for women, you didn’t know enough early enough and you knew enough too late. and if more self-analysis is allowed: it’s nice that you turned out well- honed, that you arrived late and remained generally capable. outside of that, not much to say except you can leave without regret. until then, a bit more amusement, a bit more endurance, leaning back into it. like the dog who got across the busy street: not all of it was good luck.
I used to feel sorry for Henry Miller when he got old he stopped writing, dabbled with paints and put ads in the UCLA paper for secretarial help. Henry preferred Oriental ladies, young ones and they came by and did little things for him and he fell in love with them, even though there was no sex. he wrote them letters, all his writing went into love letters. and the ladies were flattered but simply went on teasing him. he liked having them around. maybe he felt that they held death back a little or maybe they stopped him from thinking about it too much or maybe the old boy was simply horny. I remember a young lady who came to see me who said, “I was going to fuck Henry Miller before he died but now it’s too late so I came to see you.” “forget it, baby,” I told her. I liked the way Henry Miller looked in his last years, like a wise Buddha but he didn’t act like one. I only wish he had gone out in a different way, not begging for it, using his name. I would have preferred to see him continue to write books until the end, right into the face of death. but since he couldn’t do it well, maybe somebody else can. there’s some old fart somewhere, I’m sure who can. if he doesn’t diddle his brains away at the racetrack.
wasted too often the people complain that they have done nothing with their lives and then they wait for somebody to tell them that this isn’t so. look, you’ve done this and that and you’ve done that and that’s something. you really think so? of course. but they had it right. they’ve done nothing. shown no courage. no inventiveness. they did what they were taught to do. they did what they were told to do. they had no resistance, no thoughts of their own. they were pushed and shoved and went obediently. they had no heart. they were cowardly. they stank in life. they stank up life. and now they want to be told that they didn’t fail. you’ve met them. they’re everywhere. the spiritless. the dead-before-death gang. be kind? lie to them? tell them what they want to hear? tell them anything they want to hear? people with courage made them what they aren’t. and if they ask me, I’ll tell them what they don’t want to hear. it’s better you keep them away from me, or they’ll tell you I’m a cruel man. it’s better that they confer with you. I want to be free of that.
a vote for the gentle light burned senseless by other people’s constant depression, I pull the curtains apart, aching for the gentle light. it’s there, it’s there somewhere, I’m sure. oh, the faces of depression, expressions pulled down into the gluey dark. the bitter small sour mouths, the self-pity, the self-justification is too much, all too much. the faces in shadow, deep creases of gloom. there’s no courage there, just the desire to possess something—admiration, fame, lovers, money, any damn thing so long as it comes easy. so long as they don’t have to do what’s necessary. and when they don’t succeed they become embittered, ugly, they imagine that they have been slighted, cheated, demeaned. then they concentrate upon their unhappiness, their last refuge. and they’re good at that, they are very good at that. they have so much unhappiness they insist upon your sharing it too. they bathe and splash in their unhappiness, they splash it upon you. it’s all they have. it’s all they want. it’s all they can be. you must refuse to join them. you must remain yourself. you must open the curtains or the blinds or the windows to the gentle light. to joy. it’s there in life and even in death it can be there.
be alone when you think about how often it all goes wrong again and again you begin to look at the walls and yearn to stay inside because the streets are the same old movie and the heroes all end up like old movie heroes: fat ass, fat face and the brain of a lizard. it’s no wonder that a wise man will climb a 10,000 foot mountain and sit there waiting living off of berry bush leaves rather than bet it all on two dimpled knees that surely won’t last a lifetime and 2 times out of 3 won’t remain even for one long night. mountains are hard to climb. thus the walls are your friends. learn your walls. what they have given us out there in the streets is something that even children get tired of. stay within your walls. they are the truest love. build where few others build. it’s the last way left.
I inherit the old guy next door died last week, he was 95 or 96, I am not sure. but I am now the oldest fart in the neighborhood. when I bend over to pick up the morning paper I think of heart attack or when I swim in my pool alone I think, Jesus Christ, they’ll come and find me floating here face down, my 8 cats sitting on the edge licking and scratching. dying’s not bad, it’s that little transition from here to there that’s strange like flicking the light switch off. I’m now the old fart in the neighborhood, been working at it for some time, but now I have to work in some new moves: I have to forget to zip up all the way, wear slippers instead of my shoes, hang my glasses around my neck, fart loudly in the supermarket, wear unmatched socks, back my car into a garbage can. I must shorten my stride, take small mincing steps, develop a squint, bow my head and ask, “what? what did you say?” I’ve got to get ready, whiten my hair, forget to shave. I want you to know me when you see me: I’m now the old fart in the neighborhood and you can’t tell me a damn thing I don’t already know. respect your elders, sonny, and get the hell out of my way!
and the girls who are yours now will soon belong to other men who didn’t get their cookies and cream so easily and so early.
tabby cat he has on bluejeans and tennis shoes and walks with two young girls about his age. every now and then he leaps into the air and clicks his heels together. he’s like a young colt but somehow he also reminds me more of a tabby cat. his ass is soft and he has no more on his mind than a gnat. he jumps along behind his girls clicking his heels together. then he pulls the hair of one runs over to the other and squeezes her neck. he has fucked both of them and is pleased with himself. it has all happened so easily for him. and I think, ah, my little tabby cat what nights and days wait for you. your soft ass will be your doom. your agony will be endless and the girls who are yours now will soon belong to other men who didn’t get their cookies and cream so easily and so early. the girls are practicing on you the girls are practicing for other men for someone out of the jungle for someone out of the lion cage. I smile as I watch you walking along clicking your heels together. my god, boy, I fear for you on that night when you first find out. it’s a sunny day now. jump while you can.
trouble in the night she awakens me almost every night, “Hank! HANK!” shaking me… “yeh?” I ask. “don’t you hear that?” “go to sleep…” “THERE’S SOMETHING ON THE STAIRS!” “all right…” I get up, my feet are numb, my legs buckle at the knees. I have a switchblade, and also a stun gun that can freeze a man for 15 minutes. I bother with neither just walk to the stairway naked not caring if I find a 9 foot monster, almost hoping to find one. —halfway down the stairway it’s only the cat clawing an old newspaper to pieces. he only wants to get out into the night and I let him out. I go back up. sometimes I think my woman lives with me only because she is afraid to live alone. “it was the cat,” I say, climbing in. “ARE YOU SURE?” sometimes I have to conduct a real room-to-room search with all the lights on. I stand naked outside of closet doors and say, “o.k., come on out, big bad thing!” but this night I refuse. “go to sleep,” I say, “and in the morning we’ll check everything out.” I can feel her rigid beside me listening to the sounds of the night but I am soon asleep. I dream that I can fly. I flap my arms and I can fly gracefully through the air. below me men and women are running. they curse me and throw objects. they want me to come down. they want my box of matches, my camera and my car keys. but what does she want?
3 old men at separate tables I am one of them. how did we get here? where are our ladies? what happened to our lives and years? this appears to be a calm Sunday evening. the waiters move among us. we are poured water, coffee, wine. bread arrives, armless, eyeless bread. peaceful bread. we order. we await our orders. where have the wars gone? where have, even, the tiny agonies gone? this place has found us. the white table cloths are placid ponds, the utensils glimmer for our fingers. such calm is ungodly but fair. for in a moment we still remember the hard years and those to come. nothing is forgotten, it is merely put aside. like a glove, a gun, a nightmare. 3 old men at separate tables. eternity could be like this. I lift my cup of coffee, the centuries enduring me, nothing else matters so sweetly now.
the singer this then is the arena forevermore. this then is the arena where you must succeed or fail. you have had some success here but they expect more than that in this arena. there have been defeats too, befuddling defeats. there is no mercy in this arena, there is only victory or defeat, something living or something dead. this arena is neither just nor good. there is no permanent escape from this arena. and each temporary escape has a permanent price. neither drink nor love will see you through. in this arena now stretching your arms looking out the window watching cats and leaves and shadows thinking of vanished women and old automobiles while Europe runs up and down your rug you can only sing popular melodies in the last of your mind.
no guru I keep getting phone calls from the helpless and the lonely and the depressed. yes, I tell them, that happens to all of us. oh, you’re writing poems now? I’ll buy your book. women? you lose them and you find them. be strong. eat well. sleep late, if possible. you’re sick? you should jog, jog along the water. watch for the dolphins. you need vitamin E, cigarettes, and a new typewriter ribbon. I hang up. I go over and sit down in front of the typewriter. little do they know, those suffering bastards, that no man is completely sane. I am sweating behind the ears. the phone rings again. I listen. I listen until it stops then I lean over the keys… another great book in the works for Barnes and Noble.
in this cage some songs are born I write poetry, worry, smile, laugh sleep continue for a while just like most of us just like all of us; sometimes I want to hug all Mankind on earth and say, god damn all this that they’ve brought down upon us, we are brave and good even though we are selfish and kill each other and kill ourselves, we are the people born to kill and die and weep in dark rooms and love in dark rooms, and wait, and wait and wait and wait. we are the people. we are nothing more.
my movie my movies are getting better finally. but I remember this one old movie I starred in. I worked as a janitor in a tall office building at night, with other men and women who cleaned up the shit left behind by other people. those men and women had a very tired and dark and useless feeling about them. this one old man and I we used to work very fast together and then sit in an office on the top floor at the Big Man’s desk our feet up there as we looked out over the city and watched the sun come up while drinking whiskey from the Big Man’s wet bar. the old man talked and I listened to the years of his life not much he was just another tired guy who cleaned up other people’s shit and did a good job of it. I didn’t. they canned me. then I got a job as a dishwasher and they also canned me there because I wasn’t a good dishwasher. this was a seemingly endless low-budget movie it ran for years and years it didn’t cost 50 million to make it didn’t have an anti-war message it really didn’t have much to say about anything but you still ought to read my poems and see it.
a new war a different fight now, warding off the weariness of age, retreating to your room, stretching out upon the bed, there’s not much will to move, it’s near midnight now. not so long ago your night would be just beginning, but don’t lament lost youth: youth was no wonder either. but now it’s the waiting on death. it’s not death that’s the problem, it’s the waiting. you should have been dead decades ago. the abuse you wreaked upon yourself was enormous and non-ending. a different fight now, yes, but nothing to mourn, only to note. frankly, it’s even a bit dull waiting on the blade. and to think, after I’m gone, there will be more days for others, other days, other nights. dogs walking, trees shaking in the wind. I won’t be leaving much. something to read, maybe. a wild onion in the gutted road. Paris in the dark.
roll the dice if you’re going to try, go all the way. otherwise, don’t even start. if you’re going to try, go all the way. this could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs and maybe your mind. go all the way. it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days. it could mean freezing on a park bench. it could mean jail, it could mean derision, mockery, isolation. isolation is the gift, all the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. and you’ll do it despite rejection and the worst odds and it will be better than anything else you can imagine. if you’re going to try, go all the way. there is no other feeling like that. you will be alone with the gods and the nights will flame with fire. do it, do it, do it. do it. all the way all the way. you will ride life straight to perfect laughter, it’s the only good fight there is.