The Pleasures of the Damned - Charles Bukowski [66]
a man and a woman
a woman and a woman
three old women
another man and a
woman.
it’s 4:30 p.m. on a
Tuesday
and just 5 or 6 blocks north is
the cemetery
on a long sloping green hill,
a very modern place with
the markers
flat on the ground,
it’s much more pleasant for
passing traffic.
a young waitress
moves among us
filling our cups
again with lovely
poisonous caffeine.
we thank her and
chew on,
some with our own
teeth.
we wouldn’t lose much in a
nuclear explosion.
one good old boy talks
on and on
about what
he’s not too
sure.
well, I finish my meal,
leave a tip.
I have the last table by the
exit door.
as I’m about to leave
I’m blocked by an old girl
in a walker
followed by another old girl
whose back is bent
like a bow.
their faces, their arms
their hands are like
parchment
as if they had already been
embalmed
but they leave quietly.
as I made ready to leave
again
I am blocked
this time by a huge
wheelchair
the back tilted low
it’s almost like a bed,
a very expensive
mechanism,
an awesome and glorious
receptacle
the chrome glitters
and the thick tires are
air-inflated
and the lady in the chair and
the lady pushing it
look alike,
sisters no doubt,
one’s lucky
gets to ride,
and they go by
again very white.
and then
I rise
make it to the door
into stunning sunlight
make it to the car
get in
roar the engine into
life
rip it into reverse
with a quick back turn of squealing
tires
I slam to a bouncing halt
rip the wheel right
feed the gas
go from first to second
spin into a gap of
traffic
am quickly into
3rd
4th
I am up to
50 mph in a flash
moving through
them.
who can turn the stream
of destiny?
I light a cigarette
punch on the radio
and a young girl
sings,
“put it where it hurts,
daddy, make me love
you…”
it’s strange
it’s strange when famous people die
whether they have fought the good fight or
the bad one.
it’s strange when famous people die
whether we like them or not
they are like old buildings old streets
things and places that we are used to
which we accept simply because they’re
there.
it’s strange when famous people die
it’s like the death of a father or
a pet cat or dog.
and it’s strange when famous people are killed
or when they kill themselves.
the trouble with the famous is that they must
be replaced and they can never quite be
replaced, and that gives us this unique
sadness.
it’s strange when famous people die
the sidewalks look different and our
children look different and our bedmates
and our curtains and our automobiles.
it’s strange when famous people die:
we become troubled.
The Beast
Beowulf may have killed Grendel and
Grendel’s mother
but he
couldn’t kill this
one:
it moves around with broken back and
eyes of spittle
has cancer
sweeps with a broom
smiles and kills
germs germans gladiolas
it sits in the bathtub
with a piece of soap and
reads the newspaper about the
Bomb and Vietnam and the freeways
and it smiles and then
gets out naked
doesn’t use a towel
goes outside
and rapes young girls
kills them and
throws them aside like
steakbone
it walks into a bedroom and watches
lovers fuck
it stops the clock at
1:30 a.m.
it turns a man into a rock while he
reads a book
the beast
spoils candy
causes mournful songs to be
created
makes birds stop
flying
it even killed Beowulf
the brave Beowulf who
had killed Grendel and Grendel’s
mother
look
even the whores at the bar
think about it
drink too much and
almost
forget business.
woman on the street
her shoes themselves
would light my room
like many candles.
she walks like all things
shining on glass,
like all things
that make a difference.
she walks away.
lost in San Pedro
no way back to Barcelona.
the green soldiers have invaded the tombs.
madmen rule Spain
and during a heat wave in 1952 I buried my last concubine.
no way back to the Rock of Gibraltar.
the bones of the hands