You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense - Charles Bukowski [15]
“he was joking,
wasn’t
he?”
“no,” I
said.
I paid, got up, walked
to the door, opened
it.
I heard the man
say, “that guy’s
nuts.”
out on the street I
walked north
feeling
curiously
honored.
together
HEY, I hollered across the
room to her,
DRINK SOME WINE OUT OF
YOUR SHOE!
WHY? she
screamed.
BECAUSE THIS USELESSNESS
NEEDS SOME
GAMBLE!
I yelled
back.
HEY, the guy in the next
apartment beat on the
wall, I’VE GOT TO GET UP
IN THE MORNING AND GO
TO WORK SO FOR CHRIST’S
SAKE, SHUT
UP!
he damn near broke the wall
down and had a most
powerful
voice.
I walked over to
her, said, listen, let’s
be quiet, he’s got some
rights.
FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE!
she screamed
at me.
the guy began pounding
on the wall
again.
she was right and he was
right.
I walked the bottle over
to the window and
looked out into the
night.
then I had a good roaring
drink
and I thought, we are all
doomed
together, that’s all there is
to
it. (that’s all there was
to that particular drink, just
like all the
others.)
then I walked
back to her and
she was asleep in
her
chair.
I carried her to
the bed
turned out the
lights
then sat in the
chair by the
window
sucking at the
bottle, thinking,
well, I’ve gotten
this far
and that’s
plenty.
and now
she’s sleeping
and
maybe
he can
too.
the finest of the breed
there’s nothing to
discuss
there’s nothing to
remember
there’s nothing to
forget
it’s sad
and
it’s not
sad
seems the
most sensible
thing
a person can
do
is
sit
with drink in
hand
as the walls
wave
their goodbye
smiles
one comes through
it
all
with a certain
amount of
efficiency and
bravery
then
leaves
some accept
the possibility of
God
to help them
get
through
others
take it
straight on
and to these
I drink
tonight.
close to greatness
at one stage in my life
I met a man who claimed to have
visited Pound at St. Elizabeths.
then I met a woman who not only
claimed to have visited
E.P.
but also to have made love
to him—she even showed
me
certain sections in the
Cantos
where Ezra was supposed to have
mentioned
her.
so there was this man and
this woman
and the woman told me
that Pound had never
mentioned a visit from this
man
and the man claimed that the
lady had had nothing to do
with the
master
that she was a
charlatan.
and since I wasn’t a
Poundian scholar
I didn’t know who to
believe
but
one thing I do
know: when a man is
living
many claim relationships
that are hardly
so
and after he dies, well,
then it’s everybody’s
party.
my guess is that Pound
knew neither the lady or the
gentleman
or if he knew
one
or if he knew
both
it was a shameful waste of
madhouse
time.
the stride
Norman and I, both 19, striding the streets of
night…feeling big, young young, big and
young
Norman said, “Jesus Christ, I bet nobody
walks with giant strides like we do!”
1939
after having listened to
Stravinsky
not long
after,
the war got
Norman.
I sit here now
46 years later
on the second floor of a hot
one a.m. morning
drunk
still big
not
so young.
Norman, you would
never guess
what
has happened to
me
what
has happened to
all of
us.
I remember your
saying: “make it or
break it.”
neither happened and
it
won’t.
final story
god, there he is drunk again
telling the same old stories
over and over again
as they push him for
more—some with nothing
else to do, others
secretly snickering
at this
great writer
babbling
drooling
in his little white
rat
whiskers
talking about
war
talking about the
wars
talking about the brave
fish
the bullfights
even about his wives.
the people
come into the
bar
night after night
for the same old
show
which he will one day
end
alone
blowing his brains to
the walls.
the price of creation
is never
too high.
the price of living
with other people
always
is.
friends within the darkness
I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to