Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit Read Online Free Page A

the other
    day. he was sitting in his chair
    with a burlap rug over his
    lap
    and when they walked in
    the first thing he said was
    “Don’t touch my cock!”
     
 
    he had a gallon jug of
    zinfandel in his
    refrigerator, had just gotten off
    of
    5 days of
    tequila.
     
 
    a new $600 piano was in the center of
    the room,
    he’d bought it for his
    son.
     
 
    he’s always phoning for me to come over
    but when I do
    he’s very dull. he agrees with
    everything I say and
    then he goes to
    sleep.
     
 
    Solid State Marty.
    when I’m not there
    he does everything:
    sets fire to the couch
    pisses on his belly
    sings the National Anthem.
    he gets call girls over and
    squirts them with
    seltzer water, he
    rips the telephone wire out
    of the wall
     
 
    but before he does
    he telephones
    Paris
    Madrid
    Tokyo
     
 
    he beats dogs
    cats
    people
    with his
    silver crutch
     
 
    he tells stories about
    how he was a
    matador
    a boxer
    a pimp
    a friend of Ernie’s
    a friend of Picasso
     
 
    but when I come over
    he goes to sleep
    upright in his chair
    grey hair rumbling down over
    the silent
    dumb hawk face
     
 
    his son starts talking
    and then it’s time
    for me
    to go.
     

interviews
     
     
    young men from the underground
    newspapers and the small circulation
    magazines come
    more and more often
    to interview me—
    their hair is long
    they are thin
    have tape recorders and
    arrive with
    much beer.
    most
    of them
    manage to stay some hours and
    get intoxicated.
     
 
    if one of my girlfriends is around
    I get her to do the
    talking.
    go ahead, I say, tell them the
    truth about me.
     
 
    then they tell what they think is
    the truth.
     
 
    they paint me to resemble the
    idiot
    which is true.
     
 
    then I’m questioned:
     
 
    why did you stop writing for ten
    years ?
     
 
    I don’t know.
     
 
    how come you didn’t get into the
    army ?
    crazy.
     
 
    can you speak German ?
     
 
    no.
     
 
    who are your favorite modern
    writers ?
     
 
    I don’t know.
     
 
    I seldom see the
    interviews, although once one of
    the young men wrote back that
    my girlfriend had
    kissed him
    when I was in the bathroom.
     
 
    you got off easy, I wrote back
    and by the way
    forget that shit I told you about
    Dos Passos. or was it
    Mailer? it’s hot tonight
    and half the neighborhood is
    drunk. the other half is
    dead.
    if I have any advice about writing
    poetry, it’s—
    don’t. I’m going to send out for
    some fried chicken.
     
 
    buk
     

face of a political candidate on a street billboard
     
     
    there he is:
    not too many hangovers
    not too many fights with women
    not too many flat tires
    never a thought of suicide
     
 
    not more than three toothaches
    never missed a meal
    never in jail
    never in love
     
 
    7 pairs of shoes
     
 
    a son in college
     
 
    a car one year old
     
 
    insurance policies
     
 
    a very green lawn
     
 
    garbage cans with tight lids
     
 
    he’ll be elected.
     

Yankee Doodle
     
     
    I was young
    no stomach
    arms of wire
    but strong
     
 
    I arrived drunk at the factory
    every morning
    and out-worked the whole pack of them
    without strain
     
 
    the old guy
    his name was Sully
    good old Irish Sully
    he fumbled with screws
     
 
    and whistled the same song all day
    long:
     
 
    Yankee Doodle came to town
    Ridin’ on a pony
    He stuck a feather in his hat
    And called it macaroni …
     
 
    they say he had been whistling that song
    for years
     
 
    I began whistling right along
    with him
     
 
    we whistled together for hours
    him counting screws
    me packing 8 foot long light fixtures into
    coffin boxes
    as the days went on
    he began to pale and tremble
    he’d miss a note now and then
     
 
    I whistled on
     
 
    he began to miss days
     
 
    then he missed a week
     
 
    next I knew
    the word got out
    Sully was in a hospital for an
    operation
     
 
    2 weeks later he came in with a cane
    and his wife
     
 
    he shook hands with everybody
     
 
    a 40 year