Kenneth Fearing

Even when your friend, the radio, is still; even when her dream, the magazine, is finished; even when his life, the ticker, is silent; even when their destiny, the boulevard, is bare; And after that paradise, the dance-hall, is closed; after that theater, the clinic, is dark, Still there will be your desire, and hers, and his hopes and theirs, Your laughter, their laughter, Your curse and his curse, her reward and their reward, their dismay and his dismay and her dismay and yours— Even when your enemy, the collector, is dead; even when your counsellor, the salesman, is sleeping; even when your sweetheart, the movie queen, has spoken; even when your friend, the magnate, is gone.

The dramatis personae include a fly-specked Monday evening, A cigar store with stagnant windows, Two crooked streets, Six policemen and Louie Glatz. Bass drums mumble and mutter an ominous portent As Louie Glatz holds up the cigar store and backs out with $14.92. Officer Dolan noticed something suspicious, it is supposed, And ordered him to halt, But dangerous, handsome, cross-eye'd Louie the rat Spoke with his gat, Rat-a-tat-tat— Rat-a-tat-tat And Dolan was buried as quickly as possible. But Louie didn't give a good god damn, He ran like a crazy shadow on a shadowy street With five policemen off that beat Hot on his trail, going Blam! Blam!-blam! While rat-a-tat-tat Rat-a-tat-tat Said Louie's gat, So loud that Peter Wendotti rolled away from his wife, Got out of bed to scratch his stomach and shiver on the cold floor Listening to the stammering syllables of instant death Met on secret floors in the big vacant galleries of night. Then Louie sagged and fell and ran. With seven bullets through his caved-in skull and those feeble brains Spilling out like soup. He crawled behind a water-hydrant and stood them off another half minute. "I'm not shot," he yelled, "I'm not shot," he screamed, "it isn't me they've shot in the head," he laughed, "Oh I don't give a damn!" And rat-a-tat-tat Rat-a-tat-tat Muttered the gat Of Louie the rat, While the officers of the law went Blam! Blam!-blam! Soft music. Violins moan like weeds swaying far under water. The vibrant throats of steam-ships hoot a sad defiance at distance and nothing. Space curls its arm across the flat roofs and dreary streets. Bricks bulge and sag. Louie's soul arose through his mouth in the form of a derby hat That danced with cigarette butts and burned matches and specks of dust Where Louie sprawled. Close-up of Dolan's widow. Of Louie's mother. Picture of the fly-specked Monday evening and fade out slow.

Where analgesia may be found to ease the infinite, minute scars of the day; What final interlude will result, picked bit by bit from the morning's hurry, the lunch-hour boredom, the fevers of the night; Why this one is cherished by the gods, and that one not; How to win, and win again, and again, staking wit alone against a sea of time; Which man to trust and, once found, how far— Will not be found in Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John, Nor Blackstone, nor Gray's, nor Dun & Bradstreet, nor Freud, nor Marx, Nor the sage of the evening news, nor the corner astrologist, nor in any poet, Nor what sort of laughter should greet the paid pronouncements of the great, Nor what pleasure the mulitudes have, brining lunch and the children to watch the condemned to be plunged into death, Nor why the sun should rise tomorrow, Nor how the moon still weaves upon the ground, through the leaves, so much silence and so much peace.

I sing of simple people and the hardier virtues, by Associated Stuffed Shirts & Company, Incorporated, 358 West 42d Street, New York, brochure enclosed of Christ on the Cross, by a visitor to Calvary, first class art deals with eternal, not current verities, revised from last week's Sunday supplement guess what we mean, in The Literary System, and a thousand noble answers to a thousand empty questions, by a patriot who needs the dough. And so it goes. Books are the key to magic portals. Knowledge is power. Give the people light. Writing must be such a nice profession. Fill in the coupon. How do you know? Maybe you can be a writer, too.

1-2-3 was the number he played but today the number came 3-2-1; bought his Carbide at 30 and it went to 29; had the favorite at Bowie but the track was slow— O, executive type, would you like to drive a floating power, knee-action, silk-upholstered six? Wed a Hollywood star? Shoot the course in 58? Draw to the ace, king, jack? O, fellow with a will who won't take no, watch out for three cigarettes on the same, single match; O democratic voter born in August under Mars, beware of liquidated rails— Denouement to denouement, he took a personal pride in the certain, certain way he lived his own, private life, but nevertheless, they shut off his gas; nevertheless, the bank foreclosed; nevertheless, the landlord called; nevertheless, the radio broke, And twelve o'clock arrived just once too often, just the same he wore one gray tweed suit, bought one straw hat, drank one straight Scotch, walked one short step, took one long look, drew one deep breath, just one too many, And wow he died as wow he lived, going whop to the office and blooie home to sleep and biff got married and bam had children and oof got fired, zowie did he live and zowie did he die, With who the hell are you at the corner of his casket, and where the hell we going on the right-hand silver knob, and who the hell cares walking second from the end with an American Beauty wreath from why the hell not, Very much missed by the circulation staff of the New York Evening Post; deeply, deeply mourned by the B.M.T., Wham, Mr. Roosevelt; pow, Sears Roebuck; awk, big dipper; bop, summer rain; Bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong.

On Fourteenth street the bugles blow, Bugles blow, bugles blow. The red, red, red, red banner floats Where sweating angels split their throats, Marching in burlap petticoats, Blow, bugles, blow. God is a ten car Bronx express, Red eyes round, red eyes round. "Oh where is my lustful lamb tonight, His hair slicked down and his trousers tight? I'll grind him back to my glory light!" Roll, subway, roll. Heaven is a free amusement park, Big gold dome, big gold dome. Movies at night: "The life she led." Everyone sleeps in one big bed. The stars go around inside your head. Home, sweet home. On Fourteenth street the bugles blow, Bugles blow, bugles blow, The torpid stones and pavements wake, A million men and street-cars quake In time with angel breasts that shake, Blow, bugles, blow!

Harry loves Myrtle—He has strong arms, from the warehouse, And on Sunday when they take the bus to emerald meadows he doesn't say: "What will your chastity amount to when your flesh withers in a little while?" No, On Sunday, when they picnic in emerald meadows they look at the Sunday paper: GIRL SLAYS BANKER-BETRAYER They spread it around on the grass BATH-TUB STIRS JERSEY ROW And then they sit down on it, nice. Harry doesn't say "Ziggin's Ointment for withered flesh, Cures thousands of men and women of moles, warts, red veins, flabby throat, scalp and hair diseases, Not expensive, and fully guaranteed." No, Harry says nothing at all, He smiles, And they kiss in the emerald meadows on the Sunday paper.

"Myrtle loves Harry"—It is sometimes hard to remember a thing like that, Hard to think about it, and no one knows what to do with it when he has it, So write it out on a billboard that stands under the yellow light of an "L" platform among popcorn wrappers and crushed cigars, A poster that says "Mama I Love Crispy Wafers So." Leave it on a placard where somebody else gave the blonde lady a pencil moustache, and another perplexed citizen deposited: "Jesus Saves. Jesus Saves." One can lay this bundle down there with the others, And never lose it, or forget it, or want it. "Myrtle loves Harry." They live somewhere.