• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

if I roll down

my stockings?

I don’t mind, I said,

if you roll down the top

of your dress. whores are

always rolling down

their hose. please

go away. I read where

the cruiser crew passed the helmet

for the red cross; I think I’ll

have them pass it

to brace your flabby

butt.

have ’em pass the helmet twice, dad,

she said, howcum you don’t love me

no more?

I been thinking, I said,

how can Love have a urinary tract

and distended bowels?

pack up, daughter, and flow,

maneuver out of the mansions

of my sight!

you forget, daddy-o, we’re in

my tent!

oh, Christ, I said, the trivialities

of private ownership! where’s my

hat?

you were wearing a towel, dad, but

kiss me, daddy, hold me in your arms!

I walked over and mauled her breasts.

I drink too much beer, she said,

I can’t help it if I

piss.

we fucked for 17 days.

3:16 and one half…

here I’m supposed to be a great poet

and I’m sleepy in the afternoon

here I am aware of death like a giant bull

charging at me

and I’m sleepy in the afternoon

here I’m aware of wars and men fighting in the ring

and I’m aware of good food and wine and good women

and I’m sleepy in the afternoon

I’m aware of a woman’s love

and I’m sleepy in the afternoon,

I lean into the sunlight behind a yellow curtain

I wonder where the summer flies have gone

I remember the most bloody death of Hemingway

and I’m sleepy in the afternoon.

some day I won’t be sleepy in the afternoon

some day I’ll write a poem that will bring volcanoes

to the hills out there

but right now I’m sleepy in the afternoon

and somebody asks me, “Bukowski, what time is it?”

and I say, “3:16 and a half.”

I feel very guilty, I feel obnoxious, useless,

demented, I feel

sleepy in the afternoon,

they are bombing churches, o.k., that’s o.k.,

the children ride ponies in the park, o.k., that’s o.k.,

the libraries are filled with thousands of books of knowledge,

great music sits inside the nearby radio

and I am sleepy in the afternoon,

I have this tomb within myself that says,

ah, let the others do it, let them win,

let me sleep,

wisdom is in the dark

sweeping through the dark like brooms,

I’m going where the summer flies have gone,

try to catch me.

a literary discussion

Markov claims I am trying

to stab his soul

but I’d prefer his wife.

I put my feet on the coffee table

and he says,

I don’t mind you putting

your feet on the coffee table

except that the legs are wobbly

and the thing

will fall apart

any minute.

I leave my feet on the table

but I’d prefer his wife.

I would rather, says Markov,

entertain a ditchdigger

or a news vendor

because they are kind enough

to observe the decencies

even though

they don’t know

Rimbaud from rat poison.

my empty beercan

rolls to the floor.

that I must die

bothers me less than

a straw, says Markov,

my part of the game

is that I must live

the best I can.

I grab his wife as she walks by,

and then her can is against my belly,

and she has fine knees and breasts

and I kiss her.

it is not so bad, being old, he says,

a calmness sets in, but here’s the catch:

to keep calmness and deadness

separate; never to look upon youth

as inferior because you are old,

never to look upon age as wisdom

because you have experience. a

man can be old and a fool—

many are, a man can be young

and wise—few are. a—

for Christ’s all sake, I wailed,

shut up!

he walked over and got his cane and

walked out.

you’ve hurt his feelings, she said,

he thinks you are a great poet.

he’s too slick for me, I said,

he’s too wise.

I had one of her breasts out.

it was a monstrous

beautiful

thing.

butterflies

I believe in earning one’s own way

but I also believe in the unexpected

gift

and it is a wondrous thing

when a woman who has read your works

(or parts of them, anyhow)

offers her self to you

out of the blue

a total

stranger.

such an offer

such a communion

must be taken as

holy.

the hands