Love Is a Dog From Hell_ Poems, 1974-1977 - Charles Bukowski [34]
you’re in your crib
your tiny death-crib
and when the nurse comes back
an hour and a half later
and there’s nothing in the bedpan
she gives you a most
intemperate look
as if when nearing death
one should be able to do
the common common things
again and again.
but if you think that’s bad
just relax
and let it go
all of it
into the sheets
then you’ll hear it
not only from the nurse
but from
all the other patients…
the hardest part of dying
is that they expect you
to go out
like a rocket shot into the
night sky.
sometimes that can be done
but when you need the bullet and the gun
you’ll look up
and find
that the wires above your head
connected to the button
years ago
have been cut
snipped
eliminated
been
made
useless as
the bedpan.
the good loser
red face
Texas
and age
he’s at an L.A.
racetrack
been talking to
a group of folks.
it’s the 4th race
and he’s ready to
leave:
“well, goodbye,
folks and God bless,
see you around
tomorrow…”
“nice fellow.”
“yeh.”
he’s going to the
parking lot to
get into a 12 year
old car
from there he’ll
drive to a roominghouse
his room will neither
have a toilet nor a
bath
his room will have
one window with a
torn paper shade
and outside will be
a crumbling cement wall
spray-can graffiti courtesy
of a Chicano youth gang
he’ll take off his
shoes and
get on the bed
it will be dark
but he won’t turn
on the light
he’s got nothing
to do.
an art
all the way from Mexico
straight from the fields
to 14 wins
13 by k.o.
he was ranked #3
and in a tune-up fight
he was k.o’d by an unranked
black fighter who hadn’t fought
in 2 years.
all the way from Mexico
straight from the fields
the drink and the women had gotten
to him.
in the rematch he was k.o’d again
and suspended for 6 months.
all that way
for the bottle and 2 cases of
v.d.
he came back in a year
swearing he was clean, he’d
learned.
and he earned a draw with the
9th ranked in his division.
he came back for the rematch
and the fight was stopped in
the 3rd round because he
couldn’t protect
himself.
and he went all the way back
to Mexico
straight to the fields.
it takes a damned good poet
like me
to handle drink and women
evade v.d.
write about failures
like him
and hold my ranking in the
top 10:
all the way from Germany
straight from the factories
among beerbottles
and the ringing of the
phone.
the girls at the green hotel
are more beautiful than
movie stars
and they lounge on the
lawn
sunbathing
and one sits in a short
dress and high
heels, legs crossed
exposing miraculous
thighs.
she has a bandanna
on her head
and smokes a
long cigarette.
traffic slows
almost stops.
the girls ignore
the traffic.
they are half
asleep in the afternoon
they are whores
they are whores without
souls
and they are magic
because they lie
about nothing.
I get in my car
wait for traffic to
clear,
drive across the street
to the green hotel
to my favorite:
she is
sun-bathing on the
lawn nearest the
curb.
“hello,” I say.
she turns eyes like
imitation diamonds
up at me.
her face has no
expression.
I drop my latest
book of poems
out the car
window.
it falls
by her side.
I shift into
low,
drive off.
there’ll be some
laughs
tonight.
a good one
I get too many
phone calls.
they seek the
creature out.
they shouldn’t.
I never phoned
Knut Hamsun or
Ernie or
Celine.
I never phoned
Salinger
I never phoned
Neruda.
tonight I got
a call:
“hello. you
Charles Bukowski?”
“yes.”
“well, I got a
house.”
“yes?”
“a bordello.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve read your
books. I’ve got a
houseboat in
Sausalito.”
“all right.”
“I want to give you
my phone number. you
ever come to San Francisco
I’ll buy you a drink.”
“o.k. give me the
number.”
I took it down.
“we run a class joint. we’re
after lawyers and state senators,
upper class citizens, muggers,
pimps, the like.”
“I’ll phone you when I
get up there.”
“lots of the girls
read your books. they
love you.