Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [31]
when men gather they
never talk about their
wives.
we discuss the
Dallas Cowboys
or the new barmaid at
The Bat Cove Tavern
or about how Tyson would
kick Holyfield’s ass …
unconcerned with
petty argument
we have floated free …
giant macho soaring
balloons!
WHEE!
after many nights
the last hour at the typewriter is only
good
if you’ve had a lucky and
productive
night,
otherwise
your time and effort have been
wasted.
this night
I feel good about the poems scattered
on the floor.
the door of this room is
open
and I can see out into the
night,
see part of the city to
my left;
see many lights—yellow, white
red, blue;
see also the moving lights
of the cars
traveling south on the
Harbor Freeway.
the lights of this city
are not at rest,
they shimmer in the
dark.
a blue tree outside the
window
looms powerful and at
peace.
my death,
after so many nights
like this,
will seem
logical,
sane
and
(like a few of my poems)
well-
written.
good morning, how are you?
$650,000 home, swimming pool, tennis court,
sauna, 4 late-model cars, a starlet wife;
he was blond, young, broad-shouldered, great
smile, great sense of humor.
he was an investor, said his starlet wife.
but he always seemed to be at home.
one afternoon
while he was playing tennis with his friends
two plainclothes cops
walked up
handcuffed him
took him
off.
it was in the papers the next day: he was a
hit man wanted for killing over fifty
men.
what bothered the neighbors most was
not who would move in next
but
when
had he found time to do it?
a reader of my work
what will you write about? he asks.
you no longer live with whores, you no
longer engage in barroom brawls, what
will you write about?
he seems to think that I’ve manufactured
a life to suit my typewriter
and if my life gets good
my writing will get bad.
I tell him that trouble will always
arrive, never worry about
that.
he doesn’t seem to understand.
he asks,
what will your readers
think?
Norman Mailer still has
his readers,
I say.
but you’re different,
he says.
not at all, I say,
we’re both about
25 pounds
overweight.
he stares at me
unblinking
through dull
gray
eyes.
Sumatra Cum Laude
sitting across from my lawyer, I
decide, at this time, one needs a good
lawyer, a tax accountant, a decent
auto mechanic, a sympathetic doctor and
a faithful wife, in order to
survive.
also, one needs some talent of one’s own,
very few friends, a good home security
system and the ability to sleep peacefully at
night.
you need at least this much in order to
get by and naturally you also must
hope to evade a long illness and / or
senility; finally, you can only
pray for a quick clean finish with
very little subsequent mourning by everybody
closely connected.
sitting across from my lawyer, I
have these thoughts.
we are on the 16th floor of a downtown office
building
and I like my lawyer, he has fine eyes,
great manners.
also, he has gotten my ass out of
several jams.
(meanwhile, among other things, you also need
a plumber who doesn’t overbill and
an honest jockey who knows where the
finish line is.)
you need all the above (and more) before
you can go home with a clear mind, open a
wooden box labeled Sumatra Cum
Laude, take one out, light it
and take a quick puff or two
before the bluebird leaves
your shoulder,
before the snow melts,
and before the rain and the traffic
and our hurly-burly life
churn everything into
black
slush.
the disease of existence
dark, dark, dark.
humanity’s shadow
shrouds the moon.
the process is
eternal.
once, I imagined that
in my old age
there would be
peace,
but not this:
dark humanity’s
insufferable
relentless
presence.
humanity claws
at me
as persistently
now
as in the
beginning.
I was not born to be
one with them
yet here I am
with only
the thought
of death
and that final
separation
to comfort me.
so there’s no chance,
no
hope,
just this waiting,
sitting here
tonight
surrounded
unsure
caught