New Poems Book Three by Charles Bukowski

into the next bar
    sat down and ordered a beer
    knowing
    that what I once thought would be hard
    was really very easy.
    I got the beer and drank it
    and it tasted far better
    than any beer
    I had had during
    the two long years since we
    first met.

SARATOGA HOT WALKER
    sometimes when I’m standing around feeling good
    it will happen
    it does happen again and again
    somebody will come up to me and say,
    “hey, I know you!”
    they will say this with some
    excitement and pleasure,
    and then I’ll tell them,
    “no, you have me confused with
    someone else,”
    but they’ll go on to insist
    that I can’t fool them:
    I was a desk clerk at this vacation
    resort in Florida,
    or I was a hot walker at
    Saratoga, or I used to run numbers in
    Philly,
    or they saw me play a part in some
    non-descript movie.
    this makes me smile.
    it pleases me.
    I like to be seen as a
    regular old guy,
    a gentle member of the race,
    a good old guy still struggling
    along,
    but I must then explain to them that
    they are wrong about who they think I am
    and then I walk away
    leaving them somewhat confused and
    suspicious.
    the strange thing is that when I’m
    Standing around
    not
feeling good
    worried about trivialities
    scratching at minor wrongs
    nobody ever comes up to me
    thinking that I am
    someone else.
    the mob knows more than you
    suspect
    about
    off and
    on,
    dead or
    alive.
    we change each moment
    for good or ill
    as time passes
    and they
    (like you and me)
    prefer the up times
    the light in the eye
    the flash of lightning
    behind the mountain
    because as far as is known
    if despair finally comes to
    stay
    nobody is ever mistaken
    for someone else;
    so
    as long as they
    continue to walk up
    to me
    and confuse me with someone
    truly alive
    I can hope
    that in some real sense
    I must be truly living
    too.

THE SIXTIES?
    I don’t remember
    much
    about the sixties
    I was working
    12 hours a night
    in the post office
    but I do remember
    one day
    a friend of mine
    took me to his friend’s
    house.
    it was a strange-
    looking house—
    they had
    painted it
    red yellow green
    and blue.
    the colors
    ran in every
    direction and also
    ran together—
    very
    psychedelic.
    inside there were
    many people
    lying around.
    they didn’t move
    much.
    they appeared to
    be asleep
    although
    it was only
    one p.m.
    “these are the
    beautiful people,”
    my friend told
    me.
    “yeah,” I said,
    “some of the women
    look
    pretty good.”
    I was feeling
    smart and walked
    over to the
    best looker.
    she had long
    blonde hair
    and an
    almost perfect
    body.
    she was
    stretched out
    on a couch
    near the
    fireplace.
    I shook
    her.
    “come on,
    baby, let’s
    fuck!”
    “peace, brother,”
    she said,
    “some other
    time.”
    we walked on
    through
    the house.
    I asked my
    friend,
    “how can all
    these people
    sleep
    with all that
    loud music
    playing?”
    he laughed,
    “you’re a real
    cube
.”
    we left and
    went back to
    his house.
    we sat and
    talked
    while his
    wife created
    ceramic art
    in the
    kitchen.
    I slept on
    their couch
    that night
    and left
    in
    the morning.
    I saw
    my friend
    again
    about
    three weeks
    later.
    driving over
    I passed
    the house
    where
    I had seen
    the blonde
    on
    the couch.
    now the
    house was painted
    grey,
    grey and
    white.
    I went
    to
    my friend’s
    house.
    his wife was
    in the kitchen
    working
    on collages.
    after
    a few drinks
    I asked
    him,
    “what happened
    to the house
    down
    the street?”
    “they were
    too obvious,”
    he said,
    “they got
    busted.”
    “that grey
    and white
    paint job,”
    I said,
    “it’s hardly
    as nice.”
    “that’s true,”
    he said.
    we looked at
    each other.
    “they should
    have painted
    it
    grey and
    blue,”
    I told
    him.

EXPERIENCE
    she claimed to be
    worldly
    to have traveled
    everywhere
    was said to have known
    many famous men and even
    slept with some of
    them.
    really she had
    (she said)
    done it
    all.
    after dinner
    at a neighborhood Japanese restaurant
    I asked her
    if she would