My Cat Died on the Titanic

Yes -- my cat also died on the Titanic. I became suspicious when I noticed that she would wake me at midnight meowing "Nearer MyGod to Thee." My wife scoffed, of course, and insisted that the tune was, in fact, "Paddlin Madeline Home" but I knew better. She (my cat) was regressed by the same fellow in Milwaukee who has regressed the better class of Dolphin. It was expensive but worth it. It turns out that Chloe had been Jack Johnson's cat -- the black fighter who was refused passage because of... oh, you all know the song: "Jack Johnson want to get on board. The Captain said: "We don't haul no coal. Fare thee Titanic. Fare thee well."Chloe (whose name was Lighting then) had already boarded the ship and was nibbling caviar in the Greater Stateroom and waiting for Jack when the doomed vessel left port and confesses that she was rather pleased when she discovered that Jack wouldn't be coming. She could meet him in New York and she had quite a nice cabin all to herself and there were masked balls to attend and no-one to stop her from renting the Pierrot costume that she knew would devastate the rather snooty millionaire cats who promenaded in First Class. 

Jack had always made her dress as one of the chorus of dancing girls in Aida and she felt that costume much too revealing. She was, in fact, dressed as Pierrot when the unsinkable ship went down. Of course, I didn't believe any of this. I t seemed too fantastic.I had never seen a cat dressed as a Pierrot. As Rhett Butler... yes...as Sinbad the Sailor... certainly... so you can imagine my amazement when I saw the film...there it was: a pitiful little cat skeleton and on the skull a Pierrot hat with a lavender pom pom and the oozy weeds twisting about -- as Lightning in the collied night/ So quick bright things come to confusion.

The Men of 48

My father was a depression man

And went through World War Two

When I was young he told me. "Son,

I'm doing this for you.

Work my ass off at the store.

They also serve who stand and wait

It won't be like it was before

You're a man of 48!

He looked at me. What did he see?

A skinny, homely kid

Dressed like Hopalong Cassidy!

He should have had no hope. He did.

America was on the rise!

He could afford a Buick Six

And looked out with a wild surmise

Ignoring asterisks

America! The factories! The sales were on at Sears

Good times for everyone -- even for the queers

Like my dear Old Uncle Joe living in Long Beach

Driving a fine Jaguar with his friend the "Georgia Peach"

They didn't need no credit cards.

Paid with hard earned cash

Drank martinis at zinc bars

And watched the young boys flash,

Chatted about Fabian

The went home and watched TV

And once even my Uncle Joe

Turned and said to me.

"You we're born under a good sign, son

Not like your Mom and Dad.

Those were Hard Times, son

Miserable and Bad...."

Then he looked away. Remembering...who knows?

But watch the wheel of fortune

Turning as it goes.

Down the years. A trail of tears.

Ah, what a horrible fate.

Theres no applause! And no cheers

For the men of '48.

And now I'm old and out in the cold

But I can see me yet

A little big eared fellow

Reading "Tom Corbett, Space Cadet."

And going to the movies

Watching "The Man with the Atomic Brain"

And slowly, slowly catching on

"We are all insane."

My father running from hard times

Working every day

Listening to the midnight chimes

"For you, they're far away, son.

For you they're far away!"

But it didn't seem that way to me

Riding on my bike

Past the steel mill houses

Where the signs said "I like Ike."

Or that time we took a Boy Scout trip

To the missile site

Lived in Doctor Strangelove times

"We are going down, we're going down

Going down to night."

We made it out of high school

Back in 66.

Some went away to college

Some went to old Fort Dix

I went away to college

Got a letter "What's going on?

I wish I was in that college

But now I'm at Khe Sanh.

Hey, I heard that Johnny

Got killed over here

I'm leaving in a couple days

Been here a whole damn year

Sorry about not writing

Something's wrong with me…"

Then I got another letter

"Absolutely, Sweet Marie"

Was playing on the stereo

As I began to read

"I just quit and I'm on the run!

I just left Walter Reed."

Bill was a man of 48

"Sometimes it gets so hard, you see."

But he had jumped the railroad gate.

Had some other place to be.

Absolutely, Sweet Marie.

He was a man of '48.

He served -- but did not stand and wait.

I never heard from him again.

But I always will remember when

We stayed out late on Halloween

And he told me he had seen

A sign outside the Bongo Club

That home of black Beelzebub.

"Tonight only! Howling Wolf!"

And he told me Jimmy Valentine

Said he could get us some fine wine.

And said that he would meet us there

Right in back beneath the stair

But I was too damn scared to go.

Jimmy was a poor Negro.

And I went home. And so did Bill.

Past the groaning old steel mill.

If I'd gone I would have become insane

Smokestack Lightning in my brain.

And one friend said "By this you see

You are just a bourgeoisie!"

My friend who loved the Grateful Dead

And put a bullet through his head.

Why? It was damn hard to tell.

I guess I didn't know him well.

My father had a candy store.

But it was more than that.

And you could go to "Tucks" next door

If you wanted to buy a hat

And up the street is Sun Ray Drugs

Woolworths and Newberry's

And then the old Coatesville Hotel

Where the hunchbacked bellboy tarried

And then there is John's Barbershop

Across from the railway stations

And a temple dark near Central Park:

The "Fraternal Order of the Masons"

And a lumber yard and coalyard too

And a house where Donna Forte wiggles

To 45s on Summer Nights

Across from the Fraternal Order of the Eagles,

Dances on her row house porch

Until her father comes back home

And yells at her to get inside

She shocked the Church of Rome!

And we even had an old town clock

I thought I could hear it tick and tock..

The steel mill closed. The clock ticked on.

The radio chattered of Saigon.

We were the men of '48

And now barely can recall that date.

The date they said that Saigon fell

We were moving on and said "Oh, well."

There's a panic there in Needle Park.

We're going down. It's getting dark.

We're going down. It's getting dark.

My friend Tommy was a fag

And once on an amphetamine jag

Drove his Datsun through the rain

The Eight Track only played "Love Train."

Drove from Philly to L.A.

Got there but he couldn't stay.

Drove back to Philly that same day.

"Those good times will not come again.

Driving, driving through the rain.

But, man, I hate that song "Love Train."

Died of Aids in 82.

What else is a poor boy supposed to do?

Mary said "I have a plan.

I'm reading Teilhard De Chardin."

I can't remember what she said

When I suggested Alfred North Whitehead.

We were high on LSD

And I was happy that she spoke to me.

Jimi Hendrix was on the wall

And she seemed so frail and small

And trembled. Outside it snowed.

And she said she hated "On the Road"

Went out in the snow with her boyfriend, Jack.

Always remember "Don't look back."

Next year I heard that she was dead.

In a car accident they said.

But, for what it's worth she's ever here

In the trembling noösphere.

The fog conspires. The taxi honks.

Fort Apache. The Bronx.

On my way to see my friend, Kevin

Starving artist. Son of heaven.

Looking for his tenement.

Holding the postcard he sent.

Please come up and see me, Joe

I'm in trouble. I don't know…"

No more words. Here's the address.

Who the hell is that I guess

Just some drunk collapsed on the steps.

Yeah, of course, it's goddamn Kevin

Starving artist. Son of Heaven.

Shake him. He wakes up. Say's "Joe

You're just in time. C'mon let's go."

Gets up once and falls back down.

Gets up again and looks around.

Then up the stairs and we go in.

Kevin shooting heroin.

"What are you doing?" is what I said.

You keep this up and you'll be dead."

Takes the needle out, says "Oh,

Holy Christ we got to go."

New Year's eve! And what rough beast?

Jimi Hendrix at the Filmore East!

Two tickets Kevin had somehow

A taxi! And we get it now…

Kevin nodding. And through the night

Speeding through the strange, sad light

Of New York, 1968.

Kevin mumbles "Well, be late."

We're there and suddenly he's awake

Cuts into the long long line

Has his ticket. I have mine.

Bill Graham says "With no more adieu

Here he is!" …What could I do?

Told Kevin "Keep up that shit and you'll be dead."

"Shut up. Get serious." is what he said.

The fog conspires. The taxi honks.

Fort Apache. The Bronx.

On my way to see my friend, Kevin

Starving artist. Son of heaven.

One year later. I was right.

And so we all go down to night.

It could not have turned out better.

"You can go to the movies in groups of six."

The old sergeant says. I am at Fort Dix

Just after basic. A General Alarm:

Fort Dix is overrun by guys back from Vietnam.

"What crap," I thought. And walked on down the hill.

The army says "Don't do this." I say "I will."

Go with one other. Some guy named Sam.

Who tells me he can't wait to go to Vietnam.

From some town in Ohio. Maybe Martins Ferry.

At least I hope. Man I am very

Interested to see what I can see. Strange days.

I would see what I could see anyways!

I don't know what the hell I mean by this

Something about Fate. Whatever this THIS is.

New to me and caught up... and here am I.

From Here to Eternity crossed with Catcher in the Rye

Unreal just then so I go… why ever tarry?

Go with a nitwit from Ohio to see "Dirty Harry."

And slump up from my seat in my most insouciant manner

To stand ironically for the Star Spangled Banner.

The audience --Jesus Christ-- all stoned or drunk

They cheer and cheer. "Do you feel lucky, punk?"

I don't. Leave. Go back and lie in my bunk.

Asking myself all night: "Do you feel lucky, do you feel lucky

...Punk?"

Union Station dawn train track 19
I'm back one day after Christmas
Washed in the waters of Victory. 

My brother said come see us come see us in Oregon!

We wrapped them each in the slaughtered sheets.
Turn me they call O turn me, brother. 

Railyard and wasteland Oxnard Ventura Vandenburg San Luis Obisbo Salinas Oakland 

Dark is with them nearly their clothes bubble on them and …

Refinery flame marshes and ricefields power station the sign says 

Dunsmuir 

Firefleshed 

And then here here now

Shasta white winter high light indian salmon ridge spine snow bridge 

Over the Cascades!

Blizzard silence blown out down the hill

and O many rivers! Williamette fern and fir I'm told and there

Salem station there is my brother his dog and new wife pickup truck geese and goats rain on a tin roof. 

Fuck this. I'm going back to New York. 

Whenever I get the I'm so alones

I think of them dry them dry them dry bones

Alone is not the word for them! I get a scare

Thinking of the who that had them...no longer anywhere

Or maybe somewhere right here

In what I call the trembling noosphere.

You remember a look...an October night

In 1983...was that right?

Yeah, he was sitting right across from me.

Alone again in a far country

His mother had died when I was away

We talked I tried to have something to say

How I remembered her from when I was a kid.

Did he remember when? He said he did.

But we were wrong I think and we went outside

And by the next year he had died.

                            A Short History

I have been very good.

I have been very good for 8 years.

I told my wife that our children looked like tiny skeletons only

three times.

When I spat blood I did so discreetly into monogrammed hankies.

I told my wife that at last I had a single integrated action plan (SIAP).

The time I went to Disneyland and blew the head off the hippo in the

jungle ride was an aberration.

The time I spent 2 weeks in the Rocket Motel with a topless dancer

named Baby Madonna was truly unusual.

I no longer think I am a wolf.

When I vomit on family holidays I do so with some grace and never at

table.

It has been years since I insisted on going into the woods to shit.

I have been interested in organizational development.

I no longer drink wine from bottles wrapped in paper bags

with guys named Spider and Bullethead.  I especially avoid doing

this in our driveway.

I am meek at work and participate with enthusiasm in group activities.

When I run in 10 kilometer races it is hard to tell that I itch all

over and am imagining that I am being chased by hearts with mouths.

I only speak to the dog in my command voice.

I go dutifully to all the Vietnam movies to learn what I should

think.  I explain to my son what a dustoff is.  I do not

mention the fact that to me it looks like people in the audience

have the heads of hyenas and jackals.

My son looks like a tiny skeleton.

When he was born I went down in the cellar and built him a coffin.

I will send this with him when he goes into the army.  From Dad.

If all dads did this it would save our government considerable expense.

Dads should also build coffins for the sons our sons will kill.

I have a complete set of plans for coffins for sons of many

nationalities.  Spider told me that this was a waste of time.

Just send along some extra-strength garbage bags.  He said.

And what about the mommas and babies.  He said.  And, anyway,

you dumb shit.  He said.  There ain't nothing to bury most of the

time.  He said.  You dumb old fucker.  You think we're back in Vietnam.

I still think that it would demonstrate our compassion.

I often imagine my daughter on fire.

I was reading "Come Away, Joe" to her and she was curled up in my arms and

I imagined that she was hit with white phosphorus and burned from the

inside out.  The white phosphorus looked like a star in her belly.

I imagined that she was also hit with napalm.  Have some jelly, honey.

We called people burnt up by napalm "crispy critters."  This was

a popular breakfast cereal at the time.

Here is how I am telling you I make love to my wife.

I imagine that we are both dead and holding each other.  We are under

a hill.  The hill looks over a blue and peaceful town.  The town

is not a town.  It is the shadow of a tone.  The bank, the church,

the little stores and tiny houses tremble and dissolve in a soft mist.

No-one can see the town.  It is not in any government records or on any

maps.  Our children live there.

For a long time I was unemployed.  I drove a car the color of a cloud.

I would pick up our children from school.  Your father comes for you

in a car the color of a cloud.

At night I imagine that our dead cat is walking in the garden.

I imagine I am in the garden and she treadles my chest.  She licks

my eyes thinking the moon's rays are milk.  Her eyes shine with love.

Lay down with me lay down in the humility of death.

You see that I am very sentimental.

This morning we all sat at breakfast and I said "I am worried

about Goethe."

"Why, Dad?" My son said.

"Ok, dear."  My wife said.  "You have been good for eight years.

You can have that party."

This is a lie.  My wife left me 10 years ago.  She lives with our

children and her new husband in a very nice rambler on a cul-de-sac

in the very nice state of California. 

I often imagine that my children are dream children. 

I still live in the same house which is where I grew up.  My father is dead.

My mother is dead.  They are buried in Fairview cemetery.  Just off Oak

street.  Warrensville, Pa, 19380.

They are on a very nice cul-de-sac.

Old joke.

I spoke to my mother the other night.

"Do you have your gloves on?"  She asked.

"Yes."  I asseverated.

I came home from Vietnam when my father died.

"Your father died."  They said.

"Complete this form." They said.  "Be back in two weeks."  They said.

When I got off the plane in Honolulu they hung flowers around my neck.

Then they unloaded the bodies.

When I saw my father in the coffin I saw that they put glasses on him.

He only wore glasses to read.  They wanted a homey look.  I vomited

in the men's room.  I held my mother at the grave.  Her cloth coat

smelled the same as it did when I was little.

We went home to the funeral meats which were Vienna sausages in tomato

sauce.  This is how a lot of people live.  My cousin turned on the TV

to watch a football game.  True.  He was down in the basement.  True.

Other males were enjoying the game.  I threw my father's hammer

through the screen.  Incoming.  I kicked my cousin in the face.

Everyone was embarrassed. 

Here's who was dead when I came back.

Daniel Mitchinok

Carlos Gonzalez

John Rollins 

William Latoff 

Gross weight: about 710 lbs.

I bought a tape recorder to record my thoughts about war and letters

to my mother.

Here are my thoughts about war as recorded by me at Landing Zone

X-Ray adjacent to the Chu Pong Range:

Here is a continuation of those thoughts as recorded by me trekking

overland with the 5th Cav:

Here are my thoughts as I surveyed the 800 dead of a famous battle

that you can read about in a coffee table book available at

a discount rate from Barnes and Noble:

My letters to mother were equally eloquent.

Is this too easy?  Yes.

Do you want to know the truth?

My wife told me she was leaving.  I am tired of this shit.

Blah. Blah.  She said.

I asked her to wait.  "Don't pack yet."  I said.

I went to the mall and bought a camera.  Plenty of film.

When I came home she was crying.  She was on the couch.

I took pictures of every room in the house. 

I opened every closet and drawer and took pictures.

I took her picture.

When the kids came home I took their pictures.

They left.

Then her mother and her brothers came over and took everything.

It took me two years to complete the reconstruction.  Now I have

a lifesize wife weeping on the couch.  My son sits at his desk

and plays Pac Man.  My daughter plays with her doll.

Some of that shit was hard to find.

   

You understand.  You are also sentimental.

One year I drove to California to see my children.  In the car the

color of a cloud.  In Oklahoma I woke up at dawn and went outside

the motel room.  It was next to a pasture.  There were horses in

the pasture.  I stood at the fence.  The horses were the color of

the dawn.  They came to me.

Then I kicked in the bedroom door.

Shot this picture.

Reader.  Rider.  Horses.

Slaked.  Plausive.  Ignorant.

--

After Twitter

Let us go then you and I. 

No, we cannot be bitter. 

To our new home in the sky 

And we will not remember Twitter. 

We will go and bid the soldiers shoot 

To get with child a Mandrake root 

Then stagger to the Mermaid Tavern 

Avoid the pit, eschew the cavern 

And there cry out just what we know 

Tales of weakness, tales of woe. 

Then sip our ale and wait for one 

William Blake? maybe John Donne! 

For God's sake given where we were 

I'd take Walter De La Mare 

No one comes. We wait an hour. 

The off we go to the Dark Tower. 

From the Mermaid to the bower. 

Ben asks to wait another hour. 

We'll wait an hour more at least. 

"Ah, look Ben -- what rough beast!" 

Slouching out from Bethlehem 

To say "Hello!" to me and Bem 

Face of Auden. Eyes of Yeats. 

Custom built to serve, it waits. 

Chats a bit..says it was built in 

A railway town by the name of Milton. 

Asks the way to Simplon Pass 

Says that it must go, alas 

Can't find the way. It's lost you see 

In Seven Types of Ambiguity. 

And we are lost but long for that... 

And Macavity the Mystery cat 

Is there and then, ah then 

We meet the long world's gentleman. 

A few years ago my Dad was dying 

I sat beside him trying trying 

To be anywhere but there 

To be anywhere no where. 

Held his hand as I read a book. 

Didn't really want to look. 

The Resistance. Nazis in the mist. 

Felt him shake and then I kissed 

Him...when was the last time I...? 

I looked at him. I watched him die. 

Then he whispered, "I need you... 

There's one thing I want you to do,,," 

Then I couldn't hear just what he said. 

I went away then he was dead. 

See the granite on his tombstone glitter. 

Then we're gone too. Twitter. Twitter. 

And then a sinking:

When I was 19 I thought "Damn! 

No one knows just where I am!" 

Left school... didn't tell my Ma or Pa 

To go by train to Mardi Gras... 

Well, first a bus to old Chi-town 

And then the train. Man, going down 

I thought "New Orleans here I come!" 

And in my pocket I had some 

Six hundred bucks in Cashier checks 

It seemed so simple -- not complex 

I didn't know what the hell I'd do 

Stay a year -- maybe two 

Then I could see for me 

A year or so in Italy. 

What I liked was:. I was alone. 

Riding to the great unknown. 

No Twitter then. It wasn't hard. 

Maybe send a fine postcard 

To...whoever...from Bourbon Street 

Just one card. A single tweet. 

"In New Orleans and I'm doing fine! 

Left the college life behind!" 

Walked to the bus. It began to snow. 

Got on the bus. I know, I know. 

We started driving... the snow fell fast 

Got off in Chi-Town, Man, at last 

Went to buy a ticket for the train 

Tried to buy a ticket -- all in vain. 

You can read about it. A record storm! 

Trains couldn't make it through the swarm 

Of snow and ice. So I slept there. 

A cop said "Boy are you aware. 

That you long hair fuckers just might 

Meet someone you don't want to see tonight?" 

Man, I got up. Made it to the bus. 

Thought I might like to discuss 

The "Lake Poets" back in English class 

Went back to school. Ah, what an ass. 

And even though I was somewhat bitter 

I didn't know there wasn't twitter. 

So no one knew I was a fool. 

And I think that rather cool. 

And lower:

t's 71. I feel the heat 

I'm at Fort Hood. Oh, if I could tweet. 

To all my friends who were not shafted 

And stayed at home while I was drafted. 

"At Fort Hood. I'm doing fine." 

To my friend John who, swigging wine 

Before posters of Mao and Hendrix... 

John -- who looked like William Bendix 

But had the certain hippie flair 

The curling lip, the just right hair 

Would be standing there with some sweet gal 

And never thinking of his pal 

Would murmur something so exquisite 

To her..then sense "Oh, damn what is it?" 

And reading then. "Oh, it's poor Joe 

He's in the army.. Yeah I know 

A loser but, hey what can you do 

When a poor loser's friends with you? 

Excuse me, please while I reply." 

A short message. "Remember I 

Told you about that girl named Chandra 

Who said I looked like Peter Fonda 

The girl with the smile and great Afro? 

We're going out. I gotta go. 

Back to her place. So, long Joe 

Me and Chandra gotta go. 

Be safe my friend and be sure to write 

And be sure to think of me tonight." 



You won’t find that White Rabbit in Old Encinita
Or find him in old Mexico
For he’s run off once again with my fair Carmelita
Who thinks she is Frieda Kahlo.

And it’s on the Left Bank you will find them
With Sartre and all of that bunch.
Where the Cheshire Cat wined and dined them
Then asked for a few francs for lunch.

What can you do?
He thinks he’s Albert Camus.
She thinks she is Frieda Kahlo.
And they make fun of you 
When you ask for the “loo.”
Which I think is pretty damn shallow.

Another Christmas Poem

I don't know just how you feel

But I'd like to see the oxen kneel

Or even to hear the reindeer pause

And think "I'll bet it's Santa Claus."

But it's a not uncommon grief

To realize you have no belief

Since 10 when you think "I'll pass"

And are then dragged off to Midnight Mass

And on Christmas day must place a wreath

On a snowy tomb. You lack belief

That your mother's mother buried there

Is somehow winging through the air

In some celestial paradise.

You pretend to pray and watch the ice

Shining from a pine tree bough.

What is all this anyhow?

You can hear your heart and feel your breath

And everywhere is death, death, death.

Then in the car and to your aunt's

A skinny kid in baggy pants

Reading a book. It's Robin Hood!

And you would be there if you could

In the forest long ago

And Friar Tuck would say "Hey, Joe!

The King is come from long ago!

King Richard from across the sea!"

Who is mortal? It's not me.

And I'd laugh and pick up my longbow

Knowing where I had to go.

The snow would fall all that long night

And we would walk until the light

Can be seen there. There! Through the mist!

And all around. Ah, long the list

Robin, John and good old Will!

And the castle there upon the hill.

And my father drives and my mother smokes.

This is a world of horrible jokes:

You live and then one day you die.

You are mortal. So am I.

This was, perhaps, in '58

Not too early not too late

All years are always ever same

But, somehow, you always try to name

Who was there because they're gone

My Dad is there. I see him yawn.

Always tired as you would be

If you sipped a daiquiri

Next to a giant Christmas tree

While my aunt smoking a Pall Mall

Complains the day is somewhat dull

And next day you again once more

Open up your little store

And wait for something and just wait

The year is Nineteen Fifty Eight

And then we leave… and riding back

I remember seeing something black:

A shadow maybe in the woods

Maybe it was Robin Hood's

And above the world the moon!

I'd be leaving! Maybe soon.

 .