The Appointment

The nurse informed me
As they were releasing me
From the hospital
After my hernia operation
That there was a little problem
With my blood counts
And that they had arranged
For me to see a specialist
In order to sort it out
I have never learned to eat right
It’s probably anaemia
Or something like that
She made no comment
But told me to keep the appointment
I promised I would
I was sore from the operation
Gutted and stuck back together
Bandaged and bewildered
I went home in a taxi

I arrived back at the same place
A few days later
Still sore and bandaged
And the specialist was waiting
He told me that my white count
Was far too high
I again mentioned anaemia
He made no comment
But told me he needed a marrow sample
This was all new to me
But I said
Help yourself
He did just that
He told me to take off my shirt
And lie on the table
As I did so I watched him
Put together a needle
Long and made of steel
He came over to the table
And then he said that
He was going to inject something kill the pain
He did so
In the middle of my chest bone
It hurt
And then he asked me about myself
I began the story

After a few minutes he tapped my chest
And said that now
He was going to collect the sample
He took a bigger needle
And got it ready
Told me to close my eyes and lie still
Before I closed my eyes I noticed
That he was holding the needle
In a different way
Like a maniac holds a knife
I closed my eyes
And he punched down into my chest bone
The pain was indescribable
Then I felt him draw the plunger up
And it felt like my soul
Was being dragged from me
I felt the marrow being drawn
And the pain was
The pain of losing something precious
He was quick
Thank god

He explained to me that
You can’t anaesthetise bone
When it was over
He put a little plaster over the spot
It was a sad and inadequate reminder
Of the pain
Like a plain wooden cross
On a battlefield
That is supposed to remind us
Somehow
Of what was suffered
And who was lost
Again I mentioned anaemia
Iron deficiency
He knew I was fishing
So he told me outright
He thought I had leukaemia
But we would have to wait
To know for sure
He told me that I was probably in shock
But I wasn’t
Shit happens
Dying is natural
And it doesn’t frighten me
I was glad though
In that moment
That I had no one at home
To break the news to
That would be a pain
Too dreadful to contemplate
And too sad
Even for me

At War With America

It was the first time I ever did acid
I was riding in the back
Of a stolen army truck
And the sun was shining
We were AWOL for the day and headed for
Vung Tau
On the coast
We were going for a swim
In the ocean
There six of us
All armed of course
Smoking pot
Laughing
Waving at the Vietnamese we passed
Or just staring at them
Few waved back
We hardly noticed
The farmers kept their heads down
And followed the buffalo
That pulled along in front
In the villages
The only people that met our gaze
Were the bargirls
Who lingered outside small dives
And called out for us to stop
And
The children
Who would run alongside
Hands outstretched
But we didn’t stop
We were going for a swim
In the ocean

I lay down on the bed of the truck
And watched the sky
I had no real idea of where we were
Or
Where we were going
And I was tired of looking
At the faces
Theirs
And
Ours
One of the guys said something
And the chatter and laughter stopped
I stood up
We were going through a small village
That had a small river running
Through it’s centre
And spanning the river
Was a bridge
And
Tied with concertina wire
To the bridge
Was the body of a man
Dead
Shot full of holes
His expression was terrible
Monuments wither
Hatred does not
We didn’t stop
We were going for a swim
In the ocean

Bosses

Fifteen years apart
And in two different cities
I worked for two very different men
I did different
But menial work
For the both of them
One, the older of the two
Who we all called Mr D
Worked next to me
Fourteen hours a day
In a basement kitchen
And he was big, loud, busy,
Stressed out and friendly
Life was all about hard work
Running a business
And being your own man
I was invited to accompany him
Unpaid and for my own enlightenment
On more than one occasion
To the Billingsgate market
In London
To watch him select the fish
And haggle prices
We went there at four a.m.
And when all the deals were made
We went to the restaurant in Soho
And got ready to meet the others
And start cutting and cleaning fish

There were Dover sole
Haddock
Halibut
Plaice
Salmon
And a thousand potatoes
To peal and cut
There was borscht to make
Gefiltafish to make
Oil to heat
Dishes to clean
Floors and tables to clean
Backbreaking boxes of fish
Again and again to lift and carry
Tons of ice to keep it all cold
It was hard work
And long hours
Split shifts
Breaks in the afternoon
The others would sleep under the tables
In the kitchen
Waiting to begin all over again
Waiting for the evening shift
I would wander Soho
Record shops
Book shops
Art galleries
Parks
Churches
And people to watch
And wonder about
Tourists
Workers, Idlers Losers, Winners, and me

Come the evening shift
The movie stars
And other show-biz riffraff
Would come for the
Kosher fish delights
And we would fry
And steam
And grill
And boil
And sweat
Till well after ten p.m.
And Mr D
Was right there with us
He was a big man
And he loved to sing
And yell
And teach
Make sure that everything
Was done just the way
He liked it
He selected the perfect fish
The perfect potatoes
He cut without waste
He measured precisely
And he paid low wages
But his people were loyal
And so was he

One of the first things
I noticed about him
Was that he had no ass
No roundness to it
It didn’t stick out at the back
Now I know that you
Might wonder about
That observation
But when you spend hours bending
And lifting huge crates
Of iced-down fish
You get a lot of opportunities
To see the other guys
From very unique angles
My back problems first
Manifested there
And plague me to this day
Twenty years later
About a year after I started there
One of the Spanish waitresses
Asked me
What happened to your ass?
You used to have an ass
When you started working here
Well Mr D had been
Working his ass off
All of his life
And now..it seemed
So was I

My mother came to visit me
During the time I worked
For Mr D
I brought her to the restaurant
For lunch one day
And Mr D insisted
That we have Dover Sole
And fine white wine
And he and my mother talked
About the blitz
And about the past
And a little bit about me
And he wouldn’t let me pay
I liked that man
I had been nothing but poor
All my life
And that still hasn’t changed
But I do admire people
Who by strength of character
And will
And work
Make their way in life
And still manage to be happy
Even through stress and pressure
They succeed and
Still maintain their humanity
He was that kind of a man
And I could tell he was a fighter
Who had been knocked down
More than once
And got back up

Fifteen years later
I was working at a hotel
On the south coast
Night porter
10:00 p.m. to 8 a.m.
Checking people in
Cleaning
Cooking
Waiting
And reading in the wee hours
There were drunks
Sleep-walkers
Hookers
Families
Vomiters in toilets
And I took care of them all
I am good with people
The pay was low
And I had a problem
Trying to sleep during the day
I would get home
And be in bed by 9 a.m.
And be wide-awake at noon
I tried going to the pub to kill time
But after missing work
Once or twice
I stopped that
And I went and got a part-time job
Cleaning toilets for a big company
That had a big office building
In the heart of town
Just for something to do

I would start work there
At 5 p.m.
And work till 9 p.m.
Then hurry to the room I rented
Change clothes
And head for the hotel
Most of the office workers
Would be finished at 5 p.m.
So I had the toilets
Pretty much to myself
The acoustics were great
So I sang a lot
And cleaned
It was peaceful work
It didn’t bother me
That I was at the bottom
Of the ladder…
I wasn’t climbing anyway
Most of the people
That I met were friendly
And I talked to everyone
I laughed and sang
And listened
And cleaned
And nobody bothered me
I did my job
And came and went
Happy

One day I was told
To go to the office
My bosses wanted a word with me
My department head and my supervisor
Were waiting for me
They closed the door behind me
And told me that I had been seen
Talking to the Chairman
And they wanted to know
What we were talking about
I told them that I couldn’t say
What was said
Because I had no idea
Who they were talking about
But I told them that if they pointed him out
I would try to remember
They were worried
I was amused
I talked to everyone
About everything
But never about work
Who wants to talk about
Cleaning toilets?
Piss on the floor
Shit on the seats and walls
Dried snot on the doors
Blocked toilets
Water stains on the mirrors
Whisky bottles in the bins
Condoms in the bins
Feminine hygiene… or the lack of it
It might be work
It might be interesting
But it isn’t something
That elevates the spirit
Everyone enters a toilet
In their own way
Some just come in and ignore you
Make a mess where you just cleaned
And leave without grace
Others come in
And carry on the last conversation
As if time had not intervened
Most were cheerful
Some were functional
Everyone was glad to be there
Some asked why I always seemed
So happy
Why I was always singing
I refrained from commenting
On the power of music
To raise you above all circumstance
so
I would tell them
That life was just too short
Not to
When the Chairman
Was finally pointed out to me
I recognised him
As someone I had spoken with a few times
He would enter the toilets politely
Ask if I minded if he came in
I would smile and say
Mi casa es su casa
Then we would talk about
Where he had spent his holiday
Or the places I had travelled
Or something else….
A million miles from work
Bosses and me…like peas in a pod

Little Chicago

I grew up in Indiana
Sort of
In a small town
About to become a city
It was a matter of pride
That the tough delinquents
Like me
Sometimes called it
Little Chicago
There were whole families
Of very tough people
Transplanted up from
The Southland
And immigrants from Mexico
And Ireland
And Poland
Blacks from Mississippi
By way of the real
Chicago
There were generations
Of German farming families
Some with strange ways
Black wide-brimmed hats
And lacy bonnets
Pacifist and separate
They didn’t call where we lived
Little Chicago

The oldest of the Irish families
Lived along the riverbank
On the south side of town
Their forebears helped
Tow the barges along
Driving horses
Drinking
Fighting
Fucking

They had names like
Fitzsimmons
O’Conner
Wheat
Farrell
And they all came
In large
Numbers
The north side was where
The Rednecks and the Blacks
Lived
In separate neighbourhoods
On the same side
Of town
Of course this was all
Downtown
The Wasps had all moved
Farther and farther
Out…as the town became
A city
And downtown…north and south
It was Little Chicago

There were family feuds
That spanned generations
And people got killed
Went to prison
Kinfolk came up from
Alabama
Just to have someone or something
To shoot

Dynamite got planted
Women cheated on their partners
With enemies
Neighbours and friends got involved
Bullets strayed
Cops picked up pieces
And all the time
We got high
We were alive
In Little Chicago
Right after the war
Housing estates grew
On the farmlands at the
Edge of the city
Wealthy ex-farmers moved further out
And bought bigger farms
Wasp doctors and lawyers
Bankers and business men
Got rich
And built a country club

Factories came and used up
Even more farmlands
Creeks and rivers
Where we camped as children
In the countryside
Were soon surrounded
By houses
Roads
People

Cops were crooked
In Little Chicago
They protected gambling
Ran their own burglary scams
Shot people who wouldn’t be missed
Went fishing with ex-cons
And let the rich kids go
While the rest of us
Went directly to jail
While our poor proud parents cursed at the shame
I grew up in this place
Learned to steal there
I stole clothes that were in fashion
Money for hotdogs
Money for beer
Wine
And cherry brandy
I stole cars to drive fast in
I crashed one through the
Front doors of the school
And parked the bastard
In front of the
Principles’ office…I was fourteen
The neighbourhood
I lived in was called
Five points
Not north or south side
In-between somehow
But more connected to the
North side
By virtue of schools
And families

Some of the kids had fathers
That drank a lot
Fought in the wars
Worked long hours
And got short-changed
For their efforts
They didn’t talk much about it
Kids or dads
As for pride
Them in us and us in them
Forget it
We shared too much
To let pride interfere

There were of course
Normal kids who lived
In normal houses
With normal parents
And one point two siblings
The American Dream
Was theirs
New cars
New houses
New clothes
Merry Christmases
Senior proms
And they didn’t have to steal anything
Except for fun
But we laughed
More than we cried
We talked
More than we fought
We dreamed
More than we slept
We fucked
More than all the others
In their safe houses
Girls got pregnant early
And had their babies
And some married
Their teenage boyfriends
And got old early
And became waitresses
And smiled for tips
And had sore feet
And tired eyes
And hungry children

Lots of the kids had brothers
And uncles
And fathers
In prison
Some mothers had boyfriends
Who always had money enough
To send you somewhere
Like the movies
Or the park
Or the drug store
To read comic books
And drink cokes
And chocolate shakes
And come home late
When I was ten or eleven
I learned to go to Church
But not on Sunday
I would go during the quiet times
No priests
No believers begging on their knees
Or singing to the ceiling
Or parading their best clothes
I went to steal the folding money
Those beggars used for bribes
When they lit the candles
I always lit a candle too
Even though I knew that
God didn’t give a shit

I bought cokes
And candy
And cherry vodka
And hamburgers
And hotdogs
My mother didn’t have a boyfriend
My father didn’t have money
They both worked hard
And kept a house
For eight kids
A parakeet
A dog
An old car
And we all ate a lot of
Beans on toast
I stole a transistor radio
And kept the single
Earphone in my head
Music in my head
Love songs in my head
Sad songs in my head
I walked all over town
Tuned in to anywhere else
But Little Chicago

Break of Noon

It’s Sunday
And
It’s almost time to begin
So I guess I better think about
Getting up
Brushing what’s left of my teeth
Shaving round the beard
Taking a chance that my bowel might move
The way it should
Creamed cheese on toast
Topped with smoked salmon
Mug of tea
Three cigarettes
And chemotherapy with orange juice
Breakfast of Champions
Put the dishes in to soak
Put the Beach Boys, The Eagles, and the Beatles
On the CD player
Turn it up loud
Fuck the neighbours
Turn all the lights out
Sink into a nice hot bath
And feel the back pain fade away
Once emerged
Put the magic cream on the ankle
The never-ending fight against psoriasis
Find the loosest fitting everything
The warmest socks
The underwear that doesn’t climb or pinch
The pants that don’t struggle against my girth
The shirt that’s warm and friendly
The slippers I bought for some hospital stay

Then in to the living room
Open the curtains
Look out through the dirty windows
At the quiet street
The quiet town
Think of all the places
I don’t have to go
Things I don’t have to do
People I don’t have to see
People who don’t have to see me
At last I am blessed
Think about the TV
Tennis on the box this afternoon
Football on the box tonight
The present war on the box all day
Every day
Decide to continue to let the music play
And then walk to my little office
Turn on this machine
And here I am again
Blessed
At
The break of noon