The Last Night of the Earth Poems Read Online Free PDF

my
    drink
    poured another.
 
    she was
    good.
    she had a college
    degree
    some place back
    East.
 
    “get it, Helga, get
    it!”
 
    there was a loud
    knock
    on the front
    door.
 
    “ HANK, IS HELGA
    THERE ?”
 
    “ WHO ?”
 
    “ HELGA !”
 
    “ JUST A MINUTE !”
 
    “ THIS IS NINA, I WAS
    SUPPOSED TO MEET
    HELGA HERE, WE HAVE A
    LITTLE SURPRISE FOR
    YOU !”
 
    “ YOU TRIED TO STEAL
    MY WHISKEY, YOU
    WHORE !”
 
    “ HANK, LET ME
    IN !”
 
    “get it, Helga, get
    it!”
 
    “ HANK !”
 
    “Helga, you fucking whore…
    Helga! Helga! Helga!!”
 
    I pulled away and
    got up.
 
    “let her in.”
 
    I went to the
    bathroom.
 
    when I came out they
    were both sitting there
    drinking and smoking
    laughing about
    something.
    then they
    saw me.
 
    “50 bucks,” said Nina.
 
    “25 bucks,” I said.
    “we won’t do it
    then.”
 
    “don’t then.”
 
    Nina inhaled
    exhaled.
    “all right, you
    cheap bastard, 25
    bucks!”
 
    Nina stood up and
    began taking her
    clothes off.
 
    she was the hardest
    of them
    all.
 
    Helga stood up and
    began taking her
    clothes off.
 
    I poured a
    drink.
    “sometimes I wonder
    what the hell is
    going on
    around here,” I
    said.
 
    “don’t worry about
    it, Daddy, just
    get with it!”
 
    “just what am I
    supposed to
    do?”
    “just do
    whatever the fuck
    you feel
    like doing,”
    said Nina
    her big ass
    blazing
    in the
    lamplight.

poetry
     
     
    it
    takes
    a lot of
 
    desperation
 
    dissatisfaction
 
    and
    disillusion
 
    to
    write
 
    a
    few
    good
    poems.
 
    it’s not
    for
    everybody
 
    either to
 
    write
    it
 
    or even to
 
    read
    it.

dinner, 1933
     
     
    when my father ate
    his lips became
    greasy
    with food.
 
    and when he ate
    he talked about how
    good
    the food was
    and that
    most other people
    didn’t eat
    as good
    as we
    did.
 
    he liked to
    sop up
    what was left
    on his plate
    with a piece of
    bread,
    meanwhile making
    appreciative sounds
    rather like
    half-grunts.
 
    he slurped his
    coffee
    making loud
    bubbling
    sounds.
    then he’d put
    the cup
    down:
    “dessert? is it
    jello?”
 
    my mother would
    bring it
    in a large bowl
    and my father would
    spoon it
    out.
 
    as it plopped
    in the dish
    the jello made
    strange sounds,
    almost fart-like
    sounds.
 
    then came the
    whipped cream,
    mounds of it
    on the
    jello.
 
    “ah! jello and
    whipped cream!”
 
    my father sucked the
    jello and whipped
    cream
    off his spoon—
    it sounded as if it
    was entering a
    wind
    tunnel.
 
    finished with
    that
    he would wipe his
    mouth
    with a huge white
    napkin,
    rubbing hard
    in circular
    motions,
    the napkin almost
    hiding his
    entire
    face.
 
    after that
    out came the
    Camel
    cigarettes.
    he’d light one
    with a wooden
    kitchen match,
    then place the
    match,
    still burning,
    onto an
    ashtray.
 
    then a slurp of
    coffee, the cup
    back down, and a good
    drag on the
    Camel.
 
    “ah that was a
    good
    meal!”
 
    moments later
    in my bedroom
    on my bed
    in the dark
    the food that I
    had eaten
    and what I had
    seen
    was already
    making me
    ill.
 
    the only good
    thing
    was
    listening to
    the crickets
    out there,
    out there
    in another world
    I didn’t
    live
    in.

such luck
     
     
    we were at this table,
    men and women,
    after dinner.
    somehow
    the conversation got
    around to
    PMS.
    one of the ladies
    stated firmly that
    the only cure for
    PMS
    was old
    age.
    there were other
    remarks
    that I have
    forgotten,
    except for one
    which came from this
    German guest
    once married,
    now divorced.
    also, I had seen
    him with
    any number of
    beautiful young
    girlfriends.
    anyhow, after quietly
    listening
    to our conversation
    for some time
    he asked us,
    “what’s PMS?”
 
    now here was one
    truly touched
    by
    the angels.
 
    the light was so
    bright
    we
    all looked
    away.

flophouse
     
     
    you haven’t lived
    until you’ve been in a
    flophouse
    with nothing but one
    light bulb
    and 56 men
    squeezed together
    on cots
    with