You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense - Charles Bukowski [4]
first in fear we scream
then begin laughing, laughing like
crazy.
she gets the bathroom first, then I use it, then we stretch out and
sleep.
I am awakened in the early morning…she is down at my center, she has
me in her mouth and is working furiously.
“it’s all right,” I say, “you don’t have to do
that.”
she continues, finishes…
in the morning we pass the desk clerk, he has on thick-rimmed dark glasses,
seems to sit in the shade of some tarantula dream: he was there when we
entered, he is there now: some eternal darkness, we are almost to the door
when he says:
“don’t come back.”
we walk 2 blocks up, turn left, walk one block, then one block south, enter
Willie’s at the middle of the
block, place ourselves at bar
center.
we order beer for starters, we sit there as she searches her purse for
cigarettes, then I get up, move toward the juke box, put a coin
within, come back, sit down, she lifts her glass, “the first one’s best,”
and I lift my drink, “and the last…”
outside, the traffic runs up and down, down and
up,
going
nowhere.
another casualty
cat got run over
now silver screw holding together a broken
femur
right leg
bound in bright red
bandage
got cat home from vet’s
took my eye off
him for
a moment
he ran across floor
dragging his red
leg
chasing the female
cat
worst thing the
fucker could
do
he’s in the penalty
box
now
sweating it
out
he’s just like the
rest of
us
he has these large
yellow eyes
staring
only wanting to
live the
good
life.
driving test
drivers
in defense and anger
often give the
finger
to those
who become involved in their
driving problems.
I am aware what the
signal of the finger
implies
yet when it is directed
at me
sometimes
I can’t help laughing at
the florid
twisted
faces
and
the gesture.
yet today
I found myself
giving the finger
to some guy
who pulled directly
into my lane
without waiting
from a supermarket
exit.
I shook the finger at
him.
he saw it
and I drove along right on his
rear
bumper.
it was my first
time.
I was a member of the
club
and I felt like a
fucking
fool.
that’s why funerals are so sad
he’s got all the tools but he’s lazy, has no
fire, the ladies drain his senses, his
emotions, he just wants to drive his
flashy car
he gets a wax job once a month
throws away his shoes when they get
scuffed
but
he’s got the best right hand in the
business
and his left hook can cave in a man’s ribs
if I can get him to do it
but
he has no god damned imagination
he’s in the top ten
but the music is missing.
he makes the money
but it’s all going to get away from
him.
some day he’s not going to be able to do
even the little
he’s doing now.
his idea of victory is to pull down as
many women’s panties as he
can.
he’s
champ at that.
and when you see me screaming at him
in his corner between
rounds
I’m trying to awaken him to the fact that
the TIME is
NOW.
he just grins at me:
“hell, you fight him, he’s a
bitch…”
you have no idea, cousin, how many
men
can do it
but
won’t.
cornered
well, they said it would come to
this: old. talent gone. fumbling for
the word
hearing the dark
footsteps, I turn
look behind me…
not yet, old dog…
soon enough.
now
they sit talking about
me: “yes, it’s happened, he’s
finished…it’s
sad…”
“he never had a great deal, did
he?”
“well, no, but now…”
now
they are celebrating my demise
in taverns I no longer
frequent.
now
I drink alone
at this malfunctioning
machine
as the shadows assume
shapes
I fight the slow
retreat
now
my once-promise
dwindling
dwindling
now
lighting new cigarettes
pouring more
drinks
it has been a beautiful
fight
still
is.
bumming with Jane
there wasn’t a stove
and we put cans of beans
in hot water in the sink
to heat them
up
and we read the Sunday papers
on Monday
after digging them out of the
trash cans
but somehow we managed
money for wine
and the
rent
and the money came off
the streets
out of hock shops
out of nowhere