CHICO NEEDED THE MONEY (or Howl for the Funny Ones) (2024) a poem

 (one of the great loves of my life, my brother Jerry, was killed almost a month ago.  Today, March 16th, would.... not, it *should* be, and is, his 43rd birthday - mine is two days from now, big 4-0 - and it is this immense sadness that I still and never will shake about it all.  

Before this, I had started work on a poem - just a few lines and left unfinished - that I had in mind for a while - it had to do with a recurring refrain from the late Gilbert Gottfried that Jerry and I would sometimes quote to each other, which initially started on The Howard Stern show, where as "Old" Groucho Marx, he would do a bit responding to any question with "Chico needed the money" since, as legend or just recorded history would have it, the real Chico Marx was perpetually bad with his money and Groucho, his younger brother who also wasn't very good with money, had to bail him out.  And of course the fact that it was *old* Groucho and not the younger and more famous image of Groucho Marx for the public was one of the funniest things about it.

With Jerry's death... I stayed up in the middle of the night when I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, two nights after he died, writing more of it.  And then more.  And then this morning I actually did something I should have done earlier and re-read Ginsburg's "Howl" and realized I knew how I should end it: with the last part replacing "I'm with you in Rockland" with "I'm with you in Teaneck," our home-town and where we grew up

So... here it is.  I don't know if this is any good, but that's not the point of it.  I had to write it).  

CHICO NEEDED THE MONEY

(Or: Howl for the Funny Ones)

I

"Chico - needed- the money,"
Is that what they
Used to say,
And by they? We mean all of they
You say.
Of course, it's Chico,
You see him coming and think
Yeah, when does he not need it?

Chico Marx, 1887, Leonard Joseph,
A guy you know
Is always a "whatsamatta"
Kind of guy.
First, we went to their house,
He wasn't-a home;
Then we went to da ball game-
He wasn't a-there;
Then we went to the ball game-
But he fool us, he no a show!
Then he went do da ball game-
And, and, and I'm a gettin
Through to yous guys? 

Who's line was it anyway?
Groucho,
that's the one.
Must have said it in... 1911
Or was it 1933
Or 1945
Or 1961
Or 1971

Or 2024, I say…. And think of Jerry….

No, not yet.

(Who’s line is it.)

Or 1976, or all those later years:
He was, by then, "Old Groucho,"
Less Groucho,
More Julius,
Or maybe more Groucho?

I don't a-know
I wasn't a there, boss.
OK, I digress, Chicolini.

But I never heard this from
The actual, alive
Old Groucho.
That's a bit, a construct,
An imitation of life
From Gilbert Ignatius Gottfried
(No, he had no Ig- what am I saying).
He knew,
Somehow,
From old TV,
As a kid,
That Old Groucho was...funny.
Old winded, weathered, tried
and true, stories
Of Old Hollywood,
With a good quip here and there.
And why, you ask
(Or I do)
Was Old Groucho broke
And couldn't manage a cent
To his name?
Say it with me now:
Chico - Needed - the Money!

For what?
Chico, Chicolini,
Leonardlini, whoever he was,
In days at the races-
Or horse feathers-
Or the one with Marilyn Monroe-
Whenever the case
Chico went to the race
And another, and another
And maybe a card game
Or three, or ten, or twenty,
And at the end of the day,
Not a cent to his name,
Or was there a dame
… I couldn't think of anything else to say.
Don't get the picture?
The guy could
Tell a joke
Take a Fall
Make Harpo look better
And play a piano or two.

Where was I...
Gilbert Gottfried
The amazing, colossal,

(How was he not a crow)
The asshole who's voice
Could break
A glass window. 
He brought
Old Groucho
To a new generation.
Who would find that funny?
Who wouldn't?
Think of these words
In the tired, craggy cadence
Of a man so long,
And so knowing,
And so without Chico;
Chico - needed - the Money.

Ask the Gilbert "Old Groucho" anything:
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Chico - Needed - the Money.
Why did the stock market crash?
Chico - Needed - the Money.
Why (reads small print) Onlyfans?

Chico… Needed the money (that bad?)
Why "A Night in Casablanca"
(Which only you and I
But not the others remember?)
Chico - Needed - the Money.

It could go on...
That was an imitation,
An impression,
A running bit,
And it made us laugh,
Us, me and Jerry.
And then I,
Invariably, on occasion,
Would do Gilbert
"Doing" Old Groucho
And maybe slip in
A random aside
If I could remember
A name that nobody remembers
From 1910s Vaudeville.

… Or 1994: The Critic
(Watch me do a hula dance
to shake these egg rolls from my pants)
…. Or 1983: Trading Places
(Merry New Year – on New Years, usually)
… Or 1988: The Naked Gun
(No, Dutch Irish, my father was from Wales)
 … Or 1992: Wayne’s World
(Did you know Milwaukee is the only American city to have elected 3 socialist mayors?)
… Or 1952: Donald (Duck) Applecore
(Applecore
Nor de more
Who’s your friend)
Or Or Or Or Or Or-

Now
Chico's gone.
Groucho's gone.
Gilbert's gone.
Jerry is gone. 

Gone to where
There
Is no money
There
Is no funny
There is
No harp, no piano, no Country, no cars on the highway-
To see what it looks like when I get
Through with it. 

II

The funny men.
What is it?
Funny is funny
And money is still money.
Is it from
A sum of hurt? 
A well of pain?
Insecurities to mask the expanse upon expanse
of self-esteem?

Do you chase the funny,
Like the dog
Chasing the car?
What do you do
If you catch the funny?
Except-
Run to catch more -
Run to catch Harpo-
With those peanuts
Peanuts, Get Yer Peanuts!

And the harp,
Or Groucho, with
The immortal words of;
Looks like an idiot-
Talks like an idiot-
Acts like an idiot-
And
Don't let it fool you,
He really is an idiot.

Gilbert wasn't an idiot.
Chico wasn’t an idiot.
Groucho wasn't an idiot.
Jerry wasn't an idiot.
These are
The wise men-
The silly men-
The brave men-
The sharp and clever
And always,
Of course,
Needing
The
money. 

Our fucking society.
All about money.
Bills and stocks and liquidity.
Streams and Rivers and Oceans of Shit.
It won’t make you whole.
It won’t bring him back.
It won’t fill the crater
Where our hearts now lack
Closure.  Or one more minute.
One more look.
One more thing
To make me piecing his final, ruptured face
in my mind’s eye not all I can do.   

Maybe, born a hundred years
past the due date too late;
When I think of Jerry,
Who kept needing… money?

Maybe?

No.

He needed my imitations -
- And I needed him needing my imitations -
My impressions, my impression of an impression.
Inside Christal Gattanella baseball
that others have impressed -
Like Chico at the card game
Or the race track-
Or in the Circus-
Or in the West (I didn’t see that one)-
Or the guy down that long dark turn -
Of a century alley
You don't want to meet.

A hundred years before,
He would be
The sixth Marx brother...
Or was it seventh
Or eighth
19th century math is fucking hard, man.
What would he be?
Jumbo? Jimbo? 

So many brothers,
the glue of Minnie (Mama) Marx.
This life I now live
Is mishappen by the pox. 

Sobs have made me a shell.
I'm too tired to guess.

III

Jerry wasn’t the sixth Marx,
Or any Marx,
He was better than that.
And maybe worse than that.

And And And… That’s all past
Now.

And now:
The crying fits-
And the laughing fits-
And the memories sitting
in greasy and tasty diners, with lovers gone by.
Fits and Starts and everything Fit to Knit
My heart into Knots

Always so long, long drawn out.

There’s no Chico
Or Groucho
Or Gilbert
To make the feeling flee, or dissipate.

I’m not quiet like Harpo-

My heart thumps and thumps and turns
into curdled blocks of sorrow.

When did I see him cry?
There were bad times-
Times with money-
Times where he was Chico
Needing the money
Or losing it-

Losing it all-

Spending it all-
Spend Spend Spend All Over the Place-
Or, no that’s not right.

He was better than Chico
Because he was my brother,
That’s what I want to say
Or know how to say.

Wittier than Gilbert,
Or even Groucho,
Because he was… Jerry. 

The refrain from our Baba:
“Jerry, Jerry,
My Strawberry.”
And his infamous retort:
“Janet, Janet,
Get off the Planet.”

And I saw the best minds of my generation….

No.  Fuck that.
They’re not Jerry.

Complicated?  Flawed?  A bucket of neuroses and addictions and
Holy Toledo,
did you see that Instagram story??!

And I know this.
I know the pain.
Or wish I did.
Or could talk with him that I wish I did.
And the strange times.
And…  The money. 

What am I saying?

The Howl is still there!
The Howl is the Remains!
The Howl for all the Funny Men
We won’t see again.

IV

Chico, a cheeky rascal,
Groucho, Cynic-King.
Gilbert, the Obscure,
fabulous Court Jester,
None of them hold a candle is the thing.

And Jerome Michael, I’m with you in Teaneck,
  Where you make the “yeah, that’s right”
  Perennial joking face, to which, I know,
  That is you and isn’t you
   all at once.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   Where we played Nintendo(s),
   And my Starfox character voices
   became ensconced in our hidden language
   All the way to the end.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   Where the fire blazed in 95
   (And, funny, “joking,” said I started)
    And you, at 13, looking on, crest-fallen
    more for yourself, than me, Mom or Dad;
    And that stuck and will stick
    Because it is still human to be that way, at 13 or 42.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   260 Highwood and Queen Anne,
   third house on the left;
   The white house,
   bent, ungainly plum tree,
   Bad plumbing, and -
   (don’t get me started on the toilet).

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   In the mocking and bullying and teasing and worse;
   that red-hot, scalding coffee method of your affection
   I was too young to understand.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   When you hugged and said sorry,
   And when you laughed at my haircut
   From Dad’s “Suck-cut,” but,
   You got that haircut, too. 
   L-O-L.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   When I watched “Taxi Driver,” and you,
   On shrooms, in the downstairs, later said,
   You saw luminous, flashing orange BOOMS
   When the guns went pow and pow and pow.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   For all the arguments, the cursing, the fighting,
   The laughter, the runs to get Calzones,
   The juggling, the juggling,
   oh the fucking juggling.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   The conspicuous
   splintered-hole through the bathroom door;
   Another blaze of fire there, and for a time I’d forget
   And then ask, and then you’d say why, and I don’t say here,
   Because it wasn’t about the door.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   The mornings with the Stooges;
   the bongs lit;
   the drums bashed;
   The swing outside that we gloriously split
   into swing putty;
   The basketball hoop where you formed
   into an un-stoppable Jerry
   Jerry, Jerry, Basketball Strawberry.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   Another impression, our Reform Rabbi, his cadence
   Like William Shatner; and you cracked up
   Like an egg that can’t wait to be fried.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   The deep red and black walls,
   the hair dyed orange - Because
   it was 1995-
   And who didn’t have that then,
   Or that tongue piercing, which raised questions
   Like a barn in Witness
   (I never asked if you saw that).

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   At the high school, at the game, a cheerleader
   And I was so proud and befuddled and charmed and
   Like Groucho,  raised eyebrows.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   Driving fast fast fast for the lunch, freshman and a senior,
   “Hot for Teacher” cranked,
   Wendy’s fries and nuggets,
   Racing against someone from school and racing against time.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   At the theater, 4 bucks,
   choppy 35mm of “There Will be Blood,”
   And your reactions more to Upton Sinclair and… money.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   Bischoffs, Taipei Noodle, Cedar Lane Grille, BoBo Kitchen,
   The gone places, the gone time, the tasty times.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   Our minds fighting and accepting and loving and always blazing,
   We didn’t know how to fix things then, Or know where to see. 

I’m with you in Teaneck,
  Like “Cats,”
   your Cats,
  Now and forever,
  The Winter Garden Theater Commercial
   That you, at the time, looked at
  And snarled your lip,
  to which, you could do both sides
   And I was always jealous, I could only do one!
  But those cats,
  Blinken and Poppins,
  And the one I vaguely forget,
  And the one with square poop.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   Where Little Boy is a Man
   Little Man is a King-
   And not once,
   but twice,
   seemed more than that,
    you’re Tony.
   For Sondheim and Bernstein
   and the Old Bard sound,
   And I don’t know how ill watch that video
   Without breaking down.

I’m with you in Teaneck,
   In my dreams, and you’re not there yet;  
   You still are too there, not there so far away.
   But I know you will be,
  As another funny man
  We loved so: Rodney, said:
   the unbearable Heavyness
   That will have to be cracked,
   Slacked, wracked, fracked, smacked and frapped.

Because life is not Teaneck
Anymore.
Life isn’t money, or funny,
Without you. 

(Jerome Michael Christal Gattanella
March 16th 1981 - February 20th, 2024)