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thought, one more fuck

I’ll be even

and I can be in love with my girlfriend again—

that is

if she hasn’t slipped in an

extra

and she probably

has.

Chicago

“I’ve made it,” she said, “I’ve come

through.” she had on new boots, pants

and a white sweater. “I know what I

want now.” she was from Chicago and

had settled in L.A.’s Fairfax district.

“you promised me champagne,”

she said.

“I was drunk when I phoned. how about

a beer?”

“no, pass me your joint.”

she inhaled, let it out:

“this isn’t very good stuff.”

she handed it back.

“there’s a difference,” I said, “between

making it and simply becoming hard.”

“you like my boots?”

“yes, very nice.”

“listen, I’ve got to go. can I use

your bathroom?”

“sure.”

when she came out she had on a

large lipstick mouth. I hadn’t seen

one of those since I was a boy.

I kissed her in the doorway

feeling the lipstick rub off on my

lips.

“goodbye,” she said.

“goodbye,” I said.

she went up the walk toward her car.

I closed the door.

she knew what she wanted and it wasn’t

me.

I know more women like that than any

other kind.

quiet clean girls in gingham dresses…

all I’ve ever known are whores, ex-prostitutes,

madwomen. I see men with quiet,

gentle women—I see them in the supermarkets,

I see them walking down the streets together,

I see them in their apartments: people at

peace, living together. I know that their

peace is only partial, but there is

peace, often hours and days of peace.

all I’ve ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,

whores, ex—prostitutes, madwomen.

when one leaves

another arrives

worse than her predecessor.

I see so many men with quiet clean girls in

gingham dresses

girls with faces that are not wolverine or

predatory.

“don’t ever bring a whore around,” I tell my

few friends, “I’ll fall in love with her.”

“you couldn’t stand a good woman, Bukowski.”

I need a good woman. I need a good woman

more than I need this typewriter, more than

I need my automobile, more than I need

Mozart; I need a good woman so badly that I

can taste her in the air, I can feel her

at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built

for her feet to walk upon,

I can see pillows for her head,

I can feel my waiting laughter,

I can see her petting a cat,

I can see her sleeping,

I can see her slippers on the floor.

I know that she exists

but where is she upon this earth

as the whores keep finding me?

we will taste the islands and the sea

I know that some night

in some bedroom

soon

my fingers will

rift

through

soft clean

hair

songs such as no radio

plays

all sadness, grinning

into flow.

2

me, and that old woman: sorrow

this

poet

this poet he’d been drinking 2 or 3 days and he walked out on the stage and looked at that audience and he just knew he was going to do it. there was a grand piano on stage and he walked over and lifted the lid and vomited inside the piano. then he closed the lid and gave his reading.

they had to remove the strings from the piano and wash out the insides and restring it.

I can understand why they never invited him back. but to pass the word on to other universities that he was a poet who liked to vomit into grand pianos was unfair.

they never considered the quality of his reading. I know this poet: he’s just like the rest of us: he’ll vomit anywhere for money.

winter

big sloppy wounded dog

hit by a car and walking

toward the curbing

making enormous

sounds

your body curled

red blowing out of

ass and mouth.

I stare at him and

drive on

for how would it look

for me to be holding

a dying dog on a

curbing in Arcadia,

blood seeping into my

shirt and pants and

shorts and socks and

shoes? it would just

look dumb.

besides, I figure the 2

horse in the first race

and I wanted to hook

him with the 9

in the second. I

figured the daily to

pay around $140

so I had to let that

dog die alone there

just across from the

shopping center

with the ladies looking

for bargains

as the first bit of

snow fell upon the

Sierra Madre.

what