Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [32]
transfixed,
the hours, the years,
this minute,
mutilated.
another comeback
climbing back up out of the ooze, out of
the thick black tar,
rising up again, a modern
Lazarus.
you’re amazed at your good
fortune.
somehow you’ve had more
than your share of second
chances.
hell, accept it.
what you have, you have.
you walk and look in the bathroom
mirror
at an idiot’s smile.
you know your luck.
some go down and never climb back up.
something is being kind to you.
you turn from the mirror and walk into the
world.
you find a chair, sit down, light a cigar.
back from a thousand wars
you look out from an open door into the silent
night.
Sibelius plays on the radio.
nothing has been lost or destroyed.
you blow smoke into the night,
tug at your right
ear.
baby, right now, you’ve got it
all.
two nights before my 72nd birthday
sitting here on a boiling hot night while
drinking a bottle of cabernet sauvignon
after winning $232 at the track.
there’s not much I can tell you except
if it weren’t for my bad right leg
I don’t feel much different than I did
30 or 40 years ago (except that
now I have more money and should be able
to afford a decent
burial). also,
I drive better automobiles and have
stopped carrying a
switchblade.
I am still looking for a hero, a role model,
but can’t find one.
I am no more tolerant of Humanity
than I ever was.
I am not bored with myself and find
that I am the only one I can
turn to in time of
crisis.
I’ve been ready to die for decades and
I’ve been practicing, polishing up
for that end
but it’s very
hot tonight
and I can think of little but
this fine cabernet,
that’s gift enough for me.
sometimes I can’t
believe I’ve come this far,
this has to be some kind of goddamned
miracle!
just another old guy
blinking at the forces,
smiling a little,
as the cities tremble and the left
hand rises,
clutching
something
real.
have we come to this?
Lord, boys,
it’s been a long time since we
sang a happy tune from
deep in the lungs.
somehow we’ve allowed them
to shut off our air, our water, our
electricity, our joy.
we’ve become like them: stilted, exact,
graven,
secretly bitter, smitten by
what’s small.
Lord, boys,
we’ve not been kind enough to hippies and
harpies, to sots and slatterns,
to our brothers and
sisters.
Lord, boys,
where has the heroic self
gone?
it’s gone into hiding, a scattered cat
in a hailstorm!
have we come to this?
have we really come to
this?
as I open my mouth
to sing
a happy tune from
deep in the lungs
a black fly
circles and swoops
in.
Lord!
old poem
what an old poem this is
from an old guy.
you’ve heard it many times
before:
me sitting here
sotted
again.
ashtray full.
bottles about.
poems scattered on the
floor.
as night creeps toward dawn
I make
more and more typing
errors and
the bars closed long
ago.
even the crickets are
asleep.
Li Po must have
experienced all these things
too.
hello, Li Po, you
juicehead, the world is still
full of
rancor and
regret.
you knew what to do
about that:
set fire to the
poems and then
sail them down the river
as the Emperor wept at such
waste
(but you and I
know that waste is a
natural part of the
way).
and the way is
now
and
fortunately
I have one drink
left
there on the floor
among the
poems
as
out of smokes
I poke into the
ashtray
light a butt
burn my nose
singe my
eyebrows
then tap out
another line of
boozy poesy
as I hear a voice
rising from the
neighborhood:
“FUCK YOU AND THAT
MACHINE!”
ah, they’ve been very
patient: it’s 3:45
a.m.
I will now stop
typing and I will
savor this last
drink
because while
I have defeated death
at least
10,000 times
the L.A. police department
is another
matter.
older
I’m older but I don’t mind,
yet.
I feel like a tank
rolling over and through all
the accumulated
crap.
more and more of it
piles up
as time passes,
physical and spiritual
crap.
we’ve even polluted
the stratosphere with
space junk,
with