Love Is a Dog From Hell_ Poems, 1974-1977 - Charles Bukowski [12]
but if I see them too often
I get sick. it’s hard to feed
without getting fed.
my piano says things back to
me.
sometimes the things are
scrambled and not very good.
other times
I get as good and lucky as
Chopin.
sometimes I get out of practice
out of tune. that’s
all right.
I can sit down and vomit on the
keys
but it’s my
vomit.
it’s better than sitting in a room
with 3 or 4 people and
their pianos.
this is my piano
and it is better than theirs.
and they like it and they do not
like it.
gloomy lady
she sits up there
drinking wine
while her husband
is at work.
she puts quite
some importance
upon getting her
poems published
in the little
magazines.
she’s had two or
three of her slim
volumes of poems
done in mimeo.
she has two or
three children
between the ages
of 6 and 15.
she is no longer
the beautiful woman
she was. she sends
photos of herself
sitting upon a rock
by the ocean
alone and damned.
I could have had
her once. I wonder
if she thinks I
could have
saved her?
in all her poems
her husband is
never mentioned.
but she does
talk about her
garden
so we know that’s
there, anyhow,
and maybe she
fucks the rosebuds
and finches
before she writes
her poems
cockroach
the cockroach crouched
against the tile
while I was pissing and as
I turned my head
he hauled his butt
into a crack.
I got the can and sprayed
and sprayed and sprayed
and finally the roach came out
and gave me a very dirty look.
then he fell down into
the bathtub and I watched
him dying
with a subtle pleasure
because I paid the rent
and he didn’t.
I picked him up with
some greenblue toilet
paper and flushed him
away. that’s all there
was to that, except
around Hollywood and
Western we have to
keep doing it.
they say some day that
tribe is going to
inherit the earth
but we’re going to
make them wait a
few months.
who in the hell is Tom Jones?
I was shacked with a
24 year old girl from
New York City for
two weeks—about
the time of the garbage
strike out there, and
one night my 34 year
old woman arrived and
she said, “I want to see
my rival.” she did
and then she said, “o,
you’re a cute little thing!”
next I knew there was a
screech of wildcats—
such screaming and scratching,
wounded animal moans,
blood and piss…
I was drunk and in my
shorts. I tried to
separate them and fell,
wrenched my knee. then
they were through the screen
door and down the walk
and out in the street.
squadcars full of cops
arrived. a police helicopter
circled overhead.
I stood in the bathroom
and grinned in the mirror.
it’s not often at the age
of 55 that such splendid
things occur.
better than the Watts
riots.
the 34 year old
came back in. she had
pissed all over herself
and her clothing
was torn and she was
followed by 2 cops who
wanted to know why.
pulling up my shorts
I tried to explain.
defeat
listening to Bruckner on the radio
wondering why I’m not half mad
over the latest breakup with my
latest girlfriend
wondering why I’m not driving the streets
drunk
wondering why I’m not in the bedroom
in the dark
in the grievous dark
pondering
ripped by half-thoughts.
I suppose
that at last
like the average man:
I’ve known too many women
and instead of thinking,
I wonder who’s fucking her now?
I think
she’s giving some other poor son of a bitch
much trouble right now.
listening to Bruckner on the radio
seems so peaceful.
too many women have gone through.
I am at last alone
without being alone.
I pick up a Grumbacher paint brush
and clean my fingernails with the hard sharp end.
I notice a wall socket.
look, I’ve won.
traffic signals
the old folks play a game
in the park overlooking the sea
shoving markers across cement
with wooden sticks.
four play, two on each side
and 18 or 20 others sit in
the sun and watch
I notice this as I move
toward the public facility
as my car is being repaired.
an old cannon sits in the park
rusted and useless.
six or seven sailboats ride
the sea below.