goin’ for a swim.”
she doesn’t answer and he goes to the pool and
jumps into the fishless, sandless water, the peroxide-codein water,
and I stand by the kitchen window drinking coffee
trying to unboil the fuzzy, stinking picture—
after all, you can’t live elbow to elbow to people without wanting to
draw a number on them.
every time my toilet flushes they can hear it. every time they
go to bed I can hear them.
soon she goes inside and then comes out with 2 colored birds
in a cage. I don’t know what they are. they don’t talk. they
just move a little, seeming to twitch their tail-feathers and
shit. that’s all they do.
she stands there looking at them.
he comes out: the little tuna, the little matador, out of the pool,
a dripping unbeautiful white, the cloth of his wet suit gripping.
“get those birds in the house!”
“but the birds need sun!”
“I said, get those birds in the house!”
“the birds are gonna die!”
“you listen to me, I said, GET THOSE BIRDS IN THE HOUSE!”
she bends and lifts them, her huge buttocks in the black slacks
looking so sad.
he slams the door behind them. then I hear it.
BAM!
she screams
BAM! BAM!
she screams
then: BAM!
and she screams.
I pour another coffee and decide that that’s a new
one: he usually only beats her at
night. it takes a man to beat his wife night and
day. although he doesn’t look like much
he’s one of the few real men around
here.
another lousy 10 percenter
I have read your stuff with
sharp inter…
he said,
falling forward
and knocking over his wine.
get that bum
OUTA here! screamed my old
lady.
but ma, I said, he’s my
agent ! got a joint in
Plaza Square !
well, kiss my bubs, she said.
(she poured wine
all around,
the bat.)
I’ve represented, he said,
raisen his head, somerset mawn, ben heck
and tomas carylillie.
an’ as you might ’ave surmised, ’e said,
mah cut, daddy-o, is ten percent !
’is haid fell
forshafts.
Ma? I asked. who’s
forshafts?
Somerset Maun ! she answered,
yo hashole !
making it
ignore all possible concepts and possibilities—
ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust—
just make it, babe, make it:
a house a car a belly full of beans
pay your taxes
fuck
and if you can’t fuck
copulate.
make money but don’t work too
hard—make somebody else pay to
make it—and
don’t smoke too much but drink enough to
relax, and
stay off the streets
wipe your ass real good
use a lot of toilet paper
it’s bad manners to let people know you shit or
could smell like it
if you weren’t
careful.
drunk ol’ bukowski drunk
I hold to the edge of the table
with my belly dangling over my
belt
and I glare at the lampshade
the smoke clearing
over
North Hollywood
the boys put their muskets down
lift high their fish-green beer
as I fall forward off the couch
kiss rug hairs like cunt
hairs
close as I’ve been in a
long time.
the poetry reading
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it’s for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I’m tense lousy feel bad
poor people I’m failing I’m failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here
it’s too late.
my eyes can’t see some lines
I read it
out—
desperate trembling
lousy
they can’t hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that’s it, I’m
finished.
and later in my room
there’s scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in dark tiny halls
reading poems I have long since become
she doesn’t answer and he goes to the pool and
jumps into the fishless, sandless water, the peroxide-codein water,
and I stand by the kitchen window drinking coffee
trying to unboil the fuzzy, stinking picture—
after all, you can’t live elbow to elbow to people without wanting to
draw a number on them.
every time my toilet flushes they can hear it. every time they
go to bed I can hear them.
soon she goes inside and then comes out with 2 colored birds
in a cage. I don’t know what they are. they don’t talk. they
just move a little, seeming to twitch their tail-feathers and
shit. that’s all they do.
she stands there looking at them.
he comes out: the little tuna, the little matador, out of the pool,
a dripping unbeautiful white, the cloth of his wet suit gripping.
“get those birds in the house!”
“but the birds need sun!”
“I said, get those birds in the house!”
“the birds are gonna die!”
“you listen to me, I said, GET THOSE BIRDS IN THE HOUSE!”
she bends and lifts them, her huge buttocks in the black slacks
looking so sad.
he slams the door behind them. then I hear it.
BAM!
she screams
BAM! BAM!
she screams
then: BAM!
and she screams.
I pour another coffee and decide that that’s a new
one: he usually only beats her at
night. it takes a man to beat his wife night and
day. although he doesn’t look like much
he’s one of the few real men around
here.
another lousy 10 percenter
I have read your stuff with
sharp inter…
he said,
falling forward
and knocking over his wine.
get that bum
OUTA here! screamed my old
lady.
but ma, I said, he’s my
agent ! got a joint in
Plaza Square !
well, kiss my bubs, she said.
(she poured wine
all around,
the bat.)
I’ve represented, he said,
raisen his head, somerset mawn, ben heck
and tomas carylillie.
an’ as you might ’ave surmised, ’e said,
mah cut, daddy-o, is ten percent !
’is haid fell
forshafts.
Ma? I asked. who’s
forshafts?
Somerset Maun ! she answered,
yo hashole !
making it
ignore all possible concepts and possibilities—
ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust—
just make it, babe, make it:
a house a car a belly full of beans
pay your taxes
fuck
and if you can’t fuck
copulate.
make money but don’t work too
hard—make somebody else pay to
make it—and
don’t smoke too much but drink enough to
relax, and
stay off the streets
wipe your ass real good
use a lot of toilet paper
it’s bad manners to let people know you shit or
could smell like it
if you weren’t
careful.
drunk ol’ bukowski drunk
I hold to the edge of the table
with my belly dangling over my
belt
and I glare at the lampshade
the smoke clearing
over
North Hollywood
the boys put their muskets down
lift high their fish-green beer
as I fall forward off the couch
kiss rug hairs like cunt
hairs
close as I’ve been in a
long time.
the poetry reading
at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it’s for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I’m tense lousy feel bad
poor people I’m failing I’m failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here
it’s too late.
my eyes can’t see some lines
I read it
out—
desperate trembling
lousy
they can’t hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that’s it, I’m
finished.
and later in my room
there’s scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in dark tiny halls
reading poems I have long since become
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