allowed
himself to be
in his mind
and in his
life.
no longer.
yet I am my brother’s
keeper.
I keep him
away.
snapshots at the track
I go to the men’s crapper
for a bowel
movement,
get up to flush.
what the hell.
something blood-dark
falls upon the
seat.
I’m 70, I
drink.
have been on my deathbed
twice.
I reach down for what has
fallen…
it’s a small burnt
potato chip
from my
lunch.
not yet…
damn thing fell from my
shirt…
I finish my toiletry,
go out and watch the
race.
my horse runs
second
chasing a 25-to-one
shot
to the
wire.
I don’t mind.
then I see this fellow
rushing toward me,
he always needs a
shave, his glasses seem
about to fall off
his face,
he knows me
and maybe I know
him.
“hey, Hank, Hank!”
we shake hands like two
lost souls.
“always good to see you,”
he says, “it refreshes
me, I know you lead a
hard life
just like I
do.”
“sure, kid, how you
doing?”
he tells me that he is
a big winner
then
rushes off.
the big board
overhead
flashes the first odds
on the next
race.
I check my program
decide to leave the
clubhouse,
try my luck in the
grandstand,
that’s where a hard-living
player belongs
anyhow,
right?
right.
x-idol
I never watch tv so I don’t know
but I’m told he was the leading man in a
long-running
series.
he does movie bits
now
I see him at the track almost every
day (“I used to have women coming out of
my ass,” he once informed me).
and people still remember him, call him
by name and my wife often asks me, “did
you see him today?”
“oh yes, he’s a gambling son of a bitch.”
the track is where you go when the other
action drops away.
he still looks like a celebrity, the way
he walks and talks and
I never meet him without feeling
good.
the toteboard flashes.
the sky shakes.
the mountains call us home.
heat wave
another one.
this night the people sit drunk or drugged or some of them
sit in front of their tv sets
slapped silly.
some few have air-conditioning.
the neighborhood dogs and cats flop about
waiting for a better time.
and I remember the cars along the freeway today
some of them stalled in the fast lane,
hoods up.
there are more murders in the heat
more domestic arguments.
Los Angeles has been burning for
weeks.
even the desperately lonely have not phoned
and that alone
makes all this almost
worthwhile:
those little mewling voices cooked into
silence
as I listen to the music of a long dead man
written in the 19th
century.
we ain’t got no money, honey, but we got rain
call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn’t rain like it
used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn’t any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn’t rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren’t built to carry off that much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from the roofs
and often there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding
smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn’t
STOP
and all the roofs leaked—
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets: bubbling, brown, crazy, whirling,
and the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things
out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were
himself to be
in his mind
and in his
life.
no longer.
yet I am my brother’s
keeper.
I keep him
away.
snapshots at the track
I go to the men’s crapper
for a bowel
movement,
get up to flush.
what the hell.
something blood-dark
falls upon the
seat.
I’m 70, I
drink.
have been on my deathbed
twice.
I reach down for what has
fallen…
it’s a small burnt
potato chip
from my
lunch.
not yet…
damn thing fell from my
shirt…
I finish my toiletry,
go out and watch the
race.
my horse runs
second
chasing a 25-to-one
shot
to the
wire.
I don’t mind.
then I see this fellow
rushing toward me,
he always needs a
shave, his glasses seem
about to fall off
his face,
he knows me
and maybe I know
him.
“hey, Hank, Hank!”
we shake hands like two
lost souls.
“always good to see you,”
he says, “it refreshes
me, I know you lead a
hard life
just like I
do.”
“sure, kid, how you
doing?”
he tells me that he is
a big winner
then
rushes off.
the big board
overhead
flashes the first odds
on the next
race.
I check my program
decide to leave the
clubhouse,
try my luck in the
grandstand,
that’s where a hard-living
player belongs
anyhow,
right?
right.
x-idol
I never watch tv so I don’t know
but I’m told he was the leading man in a
long-running
series.
he does movie bits
now
I see him at the track almost every
day (“I used to have women coming out of
my ass,” he once informed me).
and people still remember him, call him
by name and my wife often asks me, “did
you see him today?”
“oh yes, he’s a gambling son of a bitch.”
the track is where you go when the other
action drops away.
he still looks like a celebrity, the way
he walks and talks and
I never meet him without feeling
good.
the toteboard flashes.
the sky shakes.
the mountains call us home.
heat wave
another one.
this night the people sit drunk or drugged or some of them
sit in front of their tv sets
slapped silly.
some few have air-conditioning.
the neighborhood dogs and cats flop about
waiting for a better time.
and I remember the cars along the freeway today
some of them stalled in the fast lane,
hoods up.
there are more murders in the heat
more domestic arguments.
Los Angeles has been burning for
weeks.
even the desperately lonely have not phoned
and that alone
makes all this almost
worthwhile:
those little mewling voices cooked into
silence
as I listen to the music of a long dead man
written in the 19th
century.
we ain’t got no money, honey, but we got rain
call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn’t rain like it
used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn’t any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn’t rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren’t built to carry off that much
water
and the rain came down THICK and
MEAN and
STEADY
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from the roofs
and often there was HAIL
big ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding
smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn’t
STOP
and all the roofs leaked—
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets: bubbling, brown, crazy, whirling,
and the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things
out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were
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