tired
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove busses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.
slim killers
there are 4 guys at the door
all 6 feet four
and checking in at
around 210 pounds,
slim killers.
come in, I say,
and they walk in with their drinks
and circle the old man—
so you’re Bukowski, eh?
yeh, you fucking killers, what do you
want?
well, we don’t have a car
and Lee needs a ride to this nightspot
in Hollywood.
let’s go, I say.
we get into my car
all of us drunk, and
somebody in back says,
we’ve been reading your poetry a long time,
Bukowski, and I say,
I’ve been writing it a long time,
kid. we dump Lee at the nightspot
then stop off for enough beer and cigars
to demolish the
stratosphere.
back at my place I sit with the killers and
we drink and smoke.
it is somehow enjoyable.
I find I can outdrink and outsmoke them
but I realize that in areas such as fights on
the front lawn
my day is done.
the motherfuckers are just getting too young and
too big.
after they pass out
I give each of them a pillow and a blanket
and make sure all the cigars are
out.
in the morning they were just 3 big kids
untrapped, a couple of them
heaving in the bathroom.
an hour later
they were gone.
readers of my poems
I can’t say that
I disliked them.
the last days of the suicide kid
I can see myself now
after all these suicide days and nights,
being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes
(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)
by a subnormal and bored nurse…
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair…
almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull
looking
for the mercy of death…
“Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”
“O, yeah, yeah…”
the children walk past and I don’t even exist
and lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don’t even
exist…
“It’s the first sunlight we’ve had in 3 days,
Mr. Bukowski.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.”
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,
myself whiter than this sheet of paper,
bloodless,
brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski,
gone…
“Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”
“O, yeah, yeah…” pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of
my mouth.
2 young schoolboys run by—
“Hey, did you see that old guy?”
“Christ, yes, he made me sick!”
after all the threats to do so
somebody else has committed suicide for me
at last.
the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,
puts it in my hand.
I don’t even know
what it is. it might as well be my pecker
for all the good
it does.
bang bang
absolutely sesamoid
said the skeleton
shoving his chalky foot
upon my desk,
and that was it,
bang bang,
he looked at me,
and it was my bone body
and I was what remained,
and there was a newspaper
on my desk
and somebody folded the newspaper
and I folded,
I was the newspaper
under somebody’s arm
and the sheet of me
had eyes
and I saw the skeleton
watching
and just before the door closed
I saw a man who looked
partly like Napoleon,
partly like Hitler,
fighting with my skeleton,
then the door closed
and we went down the steps
and outside
and I was under
the arm
of a fat little man
who knew nothing
and I hated him
for his indifference
to fact, how I hated him
as he unfolded me
in the subway
and I fell against the back
of an old woman.
5 men in black passing my window
5 men in black passing my window
it’s Sunday
they’ve been to church.
5 men in black passing my window;
they’re between 40 and 60
each with a little smile on his face
like a tarantula.
they’re without women;
I am too.
look at them,
it’s the
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove busses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.
slim killers
there are 4 guys at the door
all 6 feet four
and checking in at
around 210 pounds,
slim killers.
come in, I say,
and they walk in with their drinks
and circle the old man—
so you’re Bukowski, eh?
yeh, you fucking killers, what do you
want?
well, we don’t have a car
and Lee needs a ride to this nightspot
in Hollywood.
let’s go, I say.
we get into my car
all of us drunk, and
somebody in back says,
we’ve been reading your poetry a long time,
Bukowski, and I say,
I’ve been writing it a long time,
kid. we dump Lee at the nightspot
then stop off for enough beer and cigars
to demolish the
stratosphere.
back at my place I sit with the killers and
we drink and smoke.
it is somehow enjoyable.
I find I can outdrink and outsmoke them
but I realize that in areas such as fights on
the front lawn
my day is done.
the motherfuckers are just getting too young and
too big.
after they pass out
I give each of them a pillow and a blanket
and make sure all the cigars are
out.
in the morning they were just 3 big kids
untrapped, a couple of them
heaving in the bathroom.
an hour later
they were gone.
readers of my poems
I can’t say that
I disliked them.
the last days of the suicide kid
I can see myself now
after all these suicide days and nights,
being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes
(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)
by a subnormal and bored nurse…
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair…
almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull
looking
for the mercy of death…
“Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”
“O, yeah, yeah…”
the children walk past and I don’t even exist
and lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don’t even
exist…
“It’s the first sunlight we’ve had in 3 days,
Mr. Bukowski.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.”
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,
myself whiter than this sheet of paper,
bloodless,
brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski,
gone…
“Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”
“O, yeah, yeah…” pissing in my pajamas, slop drooling out of
my mouth.
2 young schoolboys run by—
“Hey, did you see that old guy?”
“Christ, yes, he made me sick!”
after all the threats to do so
somebody else has committed suicide for me
at last.
the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,
puts it in my hand.
I don’t even know
what it is. it might as well be my pecker
for all the good
it does.
bang bang
absolutely sesamoid
said the skeleton
shoving his chalky foot
upon my desk,
and that was it,
bang bang,
he looked at me,
and it was my bone body
and I was what remained,
and there was a newspaper
on my desk
and somebody folded the newspaper
and I folded,
I was the newspaper
under somebody’s arm
and the sheet of me
had eyes
and I saw the skeleton
watching
and just before the door closed
I saw a man who looked
partly like Napoleon,
partly like Hitler,
fighting with my skeleton,
then the door closed
and we went down the steps
and outside
and I was under
the arm
of a fat little man
who knew nothing
and I hated him
for his indifference
to fact, how I hated him
as he unfolded me
in the subway
and I fell against the back
of an old woman.
5 men in black passing my window
5 men in black passing my window
it’s Sunday
they’ve been to church.
5 men in black passing my window;
they’re between 40 and 60
each with a little smile on his face
like a tarantula.
they’re without women;
I am too.
look at them,
it’s the
Similar Books
