The Last Night of the Earth Poems

I knew that I was dying.

something in me said, go ahead, die, sleep, become as

them, accept.

then something else in me said, no, save the tiniest

bit.

it needn’t be much, just a spark.

a spark can set a whole forest on

fire.

just a spark.

save it.

I think I did.

I’m glad I did.

what a lucky god damned

thing.

my wrists are rivers my fingers are words

if I had a book or a drink then I didn’t think too much of
other things—fools create their own
paradise.

death is nothing, brother,

it’s life that’s

hard.

I should accept this

writer’s block.

hell, I’m lucky I’m alive,

I’m lucky I don’t have

cancer.

I’m lucky in a hundred

different ways.

sometimes at night

in bed

at one or two a.m.

I will think about

how lucky I am

and it keeps me

awake

it’s no use, I’ve got to admit,

I am into my first real

writer’s block

after over

5 decades

of typing.

I have some excuses:

I’ve had a long

illness

and I’m nearing the age of

70.

and when you’re near

70 you always consider the

possibility of

slippage.

but I am bucked-up

by the fact that

Cervantes

wrote his greatest work

at the age of

80.

but how many

Cervantes

are there?

“you’ll write again,” people

assure me, “you’ll be

better than

ever.”

that’s nice to know.

but the typewriter is silent

and it looks at

me.

meanwhile, every two or three

weeks

I get a fan letter in the mail

telling me that

surely

I must be

the world’s greatest

writer.

but

the typewriter is silent

and looks at

me….

not writing is not good

but trying to write

when you can’t is

worse.

my cat looks at me and is not sure what I am and

I look back and am pleased to feel

the same

about him…

it’s all right to be a starving writer

but not

a starving writer who

drinks.

drunks are never forgiven

anything.