Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [11]
nobody hears the music
but me.
the music is only for
me.
that is my
dream.
she looked at me and asked,
did you?
did you?
did you?
on the cuff
Jane would awaken early
(and 8:30 a.m. is early
when you go to bed at
dawn).
she would awaken crying and bitching
for a drink.
she’d keep at it, bitching and wailing,
just laying there flat on her back
and running all that noise
through my
hangover.
until finally, I’d leap out of bed
landing hard on my feet. “ALL RIGHT,
ALL RIGHT, GOD DAMN IT, SHUT UP!”
and I’d climb into the same pants, the
same shirt, the same dirty socks, I was
unshaven, unbrushed, young and mad—
mad, yes, to be shacked with a woman
ten years older than
I.
no job, behind in the rent, the same tired old
script.
down three flights of stairs and out
the back way
(the apartment house manager hung out
by the front entrance,
Mr. Notes-under-the-door, Mr.
Cop-caller, Mr. Listen-we-have-only-nice-
tenants-here).
then down the hill to the liquor
store around the corner, old Don Kaufman
who wired all the bottles
to the counter, even the cheap
stuff.
and Don would see me coming, “no, no,
not today!”
he meant no booze without
cash, I was into him pretty deep
but each time I looked at all
those bottles
I got angry because
he didn’t need all those
bottles.
“Don, I want 3 bottles of cheap
wine.”
“oh no, Hank.”
he was an old man, I terrorized
him and part of me felt bad
doing it.
the old fart should have
blown me away
with his handgun.
“Hank, you used to be such a nice
man, such a gentleman.
what’s happened?”
“look, Don, I don’t want a character
analysis, I want 3 bottles of cheap
wine.”
“when are you going to pay?”
“Don, I’m going to get an income tax
refund any day
now.”
“I can’t let you have anything,
Hank.”
then I’d take hold of the counter
and begin rocking it, ripping at it,
the bottles rattling, joints and seams
giving way
all the while
cussing my ass
off.
“all right, Hank, all
right!”
then
back up the hill, back through
the rear entrance, up the three
flights of stairs
and there she’d be, still in bed.
she was getting fatter and
fatter, although we seldom
ate.
“3 bottles,” I said, “of
port.”
“thank god!”
“no, thank me. I work the
miracles around
here.”
then
I’d pour the port into
two tall water
glasses
another day
begun.
alone again
I think of each of
them
living somewhere else
sitting somewhere else
standing somewhere else
sleeping somewhere else
or maybe feeding a
child
or
reading a
newspaper or screaming
at their
new man …
but thankfully
my female past
(for me)
has concluded
peacefully.
yet most others seem to
believe that a
new relationship will certainly
work.
that the last one
was simply the
error of
choosing a bad
mate.
just
bad taste
bad luck
bad fate.
and then there are some who
believe that old
relationships can be
revived and made new
again.
but please
if you feel that way
don’t phone
don’t write
don’t arrive
and meanwhile,
don’t
feel bruised because this
poem will last much
longer than we
did.
it deserves to:
you see
its strength is
that it seeks
no
mate at
all.
fooling Marie (the poem)
he met her at the racetrack, a strawberry
blonde with round hips, well-bosomed, long legs,
turned-up nose, flower mouth, in a pink dress,
wearing white high-heeled shoes.
she began asking him questions about various
horses while looking up at him with her pale blue
eyes.
he suggested the bar and they had a drink, then
watched the next race together.
he hit fifty-win on a sixty-to-one shot and she
jumped up and down.
then she whispered in his ear,
“you’re the magic man! I want to fuck you!”
he grinned and said, “I’d like to, but
Marie … my wife …”
she laughed, “we’ll go to a motel!”
so they cashed the ticket, went to the parking lot,
got into her car. “I’ll drive you back when
we’re finished,” she smiled.
they found a motel about a mile
west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went to
room 302.
they had stopped for a