Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [18]
it’s stupid, I know, but I have an
ability to feel happy for little or no reason,
it’s not a great elation, it’s
more like a steady
warmth—
something like a warm heater on a cold
night.
I have no religion, and not even a
decent philosophy
and I’m not
stupid: I know that death will finally
arrive
but don’t consider even this to be
a negative
factor.
which is to say that in spite of
everything, I feel good
most of the
time.
I appear to handle setbacks, bad
luck, minor tragedies, without
difficulty, my mood remains
unchanged.
much experience, perhaps, has taught
me
how to remain unmoved.
yet there is one situation
I can’t endure:
a bitter, depressed, angry
woman
can still murder any
good feelings
that I might have—and
just like that I despair and
fall into a black
pit.
this occurs with some
regularity and unfortunately
in the wink of an
eye I am sullen and
depressed.
and that’s stupid,
I should be able to ignore
female
disorders
even as the dark shit
(that despite the dark shit)
floods my
brain.
do you believe that a man can be taught to write?
there was my cheap hotel; I was up on the 4th floor; I’d
bring a lady in from the bar 2 or 3 times a week and we’d burst into that
lobby like we wanted to wreck something, and the desk clerk, a really
nice fellow, was terrified of me, I was big of chest and gut and when
the writing was going badly, which it often was, upon
entering with my lady, I’d take it out on the desk clerk: “hey,
buddy, I think I’ll take one of your legs, twist it up the middle
of your back and wind you like a clock!”
I had him so scared he only called the cops once or twice and I
had fun with the cops—barricading the door and listening to the dumb
useless double-talk that cops liked to use; I always wore them
down and they never got in.
up there I stripped to my undershirt and shorts, I was nuts,
had very muscular legs, strutted up and down the room saying, “look at
my legs, baby! you ever seen legs like that?”
I always pretended to be the toughest guy in town but
when it actually came to fighting I wasn’t all that good: I
could take a hell of a punch and didn’t have much fear but my own left
hook and right cross were missing, and worse, I couldn’t seem to
get the hatred going, it all seemed a joke to me, even when some guy was
crushing my head against the edge of some urinal.
but let’s forget all that! up on that 4th floor, I was best, the red neon
sign near the downtown library flashing CHRIST SAVES, me
strutting about and proclaiming, “nobody knows I’m a genius but
me!”
and all the time I was strutting I would glance over at my lady of
the night, looking at those legs, those high heels, thinking, I’m going
to rip the love out of those high-heeled shoes and those ankles and those
thighs and that dumb pitiful face, I’m going to make her come alive!
and poor Hemingway, I thought, never met dolls like I’ve met
dolls!
which was true.
he would have walked away.
hail and farewell
as gentle as a butterfly
fluttering in the
murdered light
you came through here
like fire singing
and when it was over
the walls came down
the flags went up
and love was finished.
you left behind a pair of shoes
an old purse
and some birthday and
Xmas cards
from me all
held together
by a green rubber
band.
all well and good enough,
I suppose,
because
when your lover is gone,
thank the gods,
the silence is
final.
weep
weep for the indifference of flying fish
weep for the absence of long-haired blondes
weep for the sadness of yourself
weep for Bach
weep for the extinct animals
weep for grandfather’s clock
weep for weeping
because no one cares
the doors open in and out
the lights go on and off
teeth are pulled
I forgive the indifference of flying fish
I forgive the butterfly and the moth
I forgive the first woman who held my psyche
in her fingertips when
I was sold into captivity
long ago.
it’s a lonely world
of frightened people.
a note upon modern poesy
poetry has come