The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski [40]
dull.
where was she?
where had she gone?
the one you were going to kill yourself
for?
the conversation finished
she walked into the store
and you looked at her automobile
and even that
which used to drive up and park
in front of your door
with such verve and in a spirit of
adventure
now looked
like a junkyard
joke.
you decide not to shop at
Safeway
you’ll drive 6 blocks
east and buy what you need
at Ralphs.
getting into your car
you are quite pleased that
you didn’t
kill yourself;
everything is delightful and
the air is clear.
your hands on the wheel,
you grin as you check for traffic in
the rearview mirror.
my man, you think,
you’ve saved yourself
for somebody else, but
who?
a slim young creature walks by
in a mini skirt and sandals
showing a marvelous leg.
she’s going in to shop at Safeway
too.
you turn off the engine and
follow her in.
small talk
all right, while we are gently celebrating to night
and while crazy classical music leaps at me from
my small radio, I light a fresh cigar
and realize that I am still very much alive and that
the 21st century is almost upon me!
I walk softly now toward 5 a.m. this dark night.
my 5 cats have been in and out, looking after
me, I have petted them, spoken to them, they
are full of their own private fears wrought by previous
centuries of cruelty and abuse
but I think that they love me as much as they
can, anyhow, what I am trying to say here
is that writing is just as exciting and mad and
just as big a gamble for me as it ever was, because Death
after all these years
walks around in the room with me now and speaks softly,
asking, do you still think that you are a genuine
writer? are you pleased with what you’ve done?
listen, let me have one of those
cigars.
help yourself, motherfucker, I say.
Death lights up and we sit quietly for a time.
I can feel him here with me.
don’t you long for the ferocity
of youth? He finally asks.
not so much, I say.
but don’t you regret those things
that have been lost?
not at all, I say.
don’t you miss, He asks slyly, the young girls
climbing through your window?
all they brought was bad news, I tell him.
but the illusion, He says, don’t you miss the
illusion?
hell yes, don’t you? I ask.
I have no illusions, He says sadly.
sorry, I forgot about that, I say, then walk
to the window
unafraid and strangely satisfied
to watch the warm dawn
unfold.
the crunch
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers
strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks
armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.
or an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock.
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.
it hasn’t told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be.
I don’t ask them to be.
but sometimes I think about
it.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely