Authors: Charles Bukowski
don’t worry, Dostoevsky,
the fish and the hills and the harbor
and the girls and the horses and the
alleys and the nights and the dogs
and the knives and the poisons and
the wines and the midgets and the
gamblers and the lights and the guns
and the lies and the sacrifices
and the flies and the frogs and the
flags and the doors and the windows
and the stairways and the cigarettes
and the hotels and myself have been
around a long time.
just like you.
the night the poets dropped by to say
hello
was at the time
that terrible time when
the ladies on the telephone
were screaming their fury
at me.
the night the poets came by to say
hello
I offered them cigarettes
as they talked about the
poet
who traveled all the way to Paris
in order to be able
to select the contents
of his next book
and we smiled at that
the poets and I
as we remembered starvation
dark mornings
deadly noons
evenings of elephantine
misery.
the night the poets came by to say
hello
we also mused about whatever happened to
Barney Google with the googly
eyes: he probably died for the love of
a strumpet as many good men
have
or went to London and walked in the
fog
waiting for
what?
the night the poets came by to say
hello
the walls were stained mellow with
grief
and beakers of curdled wine
dusty with dead spiders
sat about like memories best
forgotten.
the poets insisted then that it was best
not to think too much about things
or remember too much
but best just to sit around
in the evenings
and smoke our cigarettes and
drink our
beer
and talk quietly about
simple
things.
the poets
left soon after that
but the phone kept ringing
and I stood there frozen
as the ladies screamed their fury
at me.
what they wanted I didn’t have
and what I had
they didn’t want.
I continue to receive many letters
from young ladies.
evidently they have read some of
my books
but
they hardly ever
mention this.
many of their letters are
on pink or red
stationery
and they inform me that
they want to
kiss my lips and
they want to
come and stay with me
and
they say they will do anything
and everything
for and to me for
as long as
I can keep up with
them.
also, the younger ones are quick
to mention their
age: 21, 22, 23.
these letters are
fascinating, of
course,
but I always trash
them
for I know that all things
have their price
especially when they
are advertised as being
free.
besides,
what does it all mean?
bugs fuck, birds
fuck, horses
fuck, maybe some day they’ll
find that
even wind, water and
rocks
fuck.
and
where were all these eager
girls
when I was starving,
broke, young and
alone?
they were
not born yet, of
course.
I can’t blame them now
for
that.
but I do blame the girls
of my youth
for ignoring me and
for bedding down with all the
other
milkfish souls.
those other lads, I suppose,
were grateful then to
sink their spike into
any willing thing that
moved.
I only wish now some lass had
chanced upon me then
when I so needed her hair blowing in my
face
and her eyes smiling into mine,
when I so needed
that wild music
and that wild female willingness
to be
undone.
but they left me to sit alone
in tiny rented rooms
with only the company
of elderly landladies
and the comings and goings
of unsympathetic
roaches, they
left me terribly alone with
suicide mornings and
park bench
nights.
and now that
they are old
and
I am old
I don’t want to know
them
now
or even to know
their
daughters
even though
the gods
in their infinite wisdom
still refuse to
let me
forget and
rest.
they’re right: maybe it’s been too easy just writing about myself and
horses and drinking, but then I’m not trying to prove anything. taking
long walks lately has been pleasant and although my desire for the female
remains, I find that I needn’t always be on the lookout for new conquests.
riding the same mare need not be boring. let the wild young fillies be a
problem for other men. I am often satisfied just being alone. I now find
people more amusing than disgusting (am I weakening?) and although
I still have nights and days of depression the typewriter does not fail me.
readers expect continual growth from their poets but at this time just
holding (the fort, haha) seems miraculous. long walks, yes. and the ability
not to care—at times—as our society erupts and struggles does not mean
that I am the victim of artistic loss. solitary evenings behind drawn blinds,
being neither rich nor poor, can be satisfying. will madness arrive on
schedule? I don’t know and I don’t seek an answer—just a small quiet
space between not knowing, not wanting to know and finally finding out.
who? Chinaski? he hates fags and women.
he’s a drunk. he beats his wife. he’s a Nazi.
he only writes about sex and drinking. who
cares about that?
and he’s a nasty drunk.
I don’t understand what people see in his
writing.
I
am the real genius and now
Chinaski has asked his publishers not to
publish me!
I’ve
known some of the greatest writers
of our time!
Chinaski has met nobody.
I
got him his start!
I
got him included in that prestigious
anthology!
how does he repay me?
he writes unflattering things about
me.
and he claims he’s lived with all
those beautiful women.
have you ever seen his face?
who would bed down a man
like that?
and he’s had no education, no formal
training.
he has no idea what a stanza
is.
or for that matter—a line
break.
he just begins at the top
of the page and runs on to the
bottom.
and he says things like,
“Shakespeare bores me.”
Shakespeare!
imagine that!
and the only people he cares to see
now are the Hollywood stars!
he doesn’t want to see anybody
else.
well, I don’t want to see him
either.
I remember when he lived
in rooms the size of a
closet.
now that he has had a few books
published
he’s too good for the
rest of us!
look, I’m tired of talking about
Chinaski.
I want you to look at these
poems here.
my Collected Works,
my
work of a lifetime.
I sent them to Chinaski for a
reading,
asked for a foreword or
at least a
blurb.
that was two months ago and
not a word from him
since.
not even a sign that
he’s received the
stuff.
and I got him his start!
I got him in that prestigious anthology!
and then he asked his publishers not
to publish me!
at 9:50 the dogs started barking.
a few minutes later there was an earthquake
near Palm Springs.
the television stations break into their
programs with the news.
then the radio stations begin belaboring
the situation and
the earthquake experts at Caltech are
asked for their opinion.
the announcers are in their element.
phones begin to ring
in radio stations all
over the city.
yes, it was a quake.
yes, there will be aftershocks.
yes, we should check for gas leaks
and run a supply of water into the tub.
yes, we are all as one now.
yes, we have something we can all talk about
and we can talk about it
together.
yes, we should all call our friends
to be sure they’re safe.
(I can only wonder,
will some say they were copulating when
it happened?
will others have been sitting on the
toilet?
so many people may have been copulating
or sitting on the toilet!)
the announcer continues:
what’s that, caller?
you say you were copulating on the toilet
when it happened?
this is no time to be funny!
now we will switch to our Eye in the
Sky.
Henderson?
Henderson, are you there?
Henderson?
very well, ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have
lost contact with Henderson
so we’ll go to our roving reporter who is now
on the scene.
Barbara, are you there?
I liked him
he was clever and he could make me laugh
and often when he worked the case next to
mine we would stick our letters together and
talk
even though it was against the
rules.
he had become an American citizen
had found his way into the post office
and owned a movie theatre in
Mexico City.
I usually disliked ambitious fellows
but this guy was humorous so I forgave
him his ambition.
“hey, man,” he asked me one night,
“how long has it been since you had
a piece of ass?”
“god, I don’t know, man, 10 years
I guess.”
“10 years? how old are you?”
“50.”
“well, listen, I’ve been shacked with this
crazy woman, you know, and I’ve told her all
about you and I thought I might send her
over to your place some night, she could cook
you dinner or something. how about it?”
“please do not project your troubles
upon me,” I told him.
“I didn’t think it would work,”
he said with a grin.
the supervisor walked up behind us and
stood there.
“listen, I’ve warned you guys about
talking!”
“about talking when?” I asked.
“listen,” he said, “just keep it up and I’ll
fry your ass!”
“you win,” I said.
the supervisor walked away.
interesting things like that happened there
almost every night!
I do not want to meet
them or
their wife
or look at
photographs of
their
children.
this is
serious business
this is
war
all
the
time.
I look into
their
maledict
eyes,
excuse myself
and walk
away.
and as
Rome burns and as
the odds
flash on the
tote board
Lady Luck
smiles,
crosses
her
legs
and
applauds
my
grit.
the sky is broken like a wet sack of
offal.
the air stinks, I walk into a building,
wait for the elevator, it arrives, I get in and
join 3 people with new shoes and
dead eyes.
we rise toward the tenth floor.
one of the people is a big woman
with long brown hair.
she begins to hum a little song.
I hate it.
I press the button and get off the
elevator 2 floors
early.
I wait for the next elevator.
it arrives.
it’s empty.
it’s a beautiful elevator.
I go up two floors, get out and
walk down the hall looking for
room 1002.
I find it.
I go in.
I tell the receptionist that I have a
2 o’clock appointment.
she tells me to be seated, that
they will be with me
soon.
I sit down.
there is only one other person in
the waiting room.
it is the big woman who was humming
the little song on the
elevator.
now she is silent.
she wears a green dress and
pretends to read a
magazine.
I look at her legs.
not good legs.
I get up and walk out, walk down
the hall.
I find a water fountain,
bend over, drink some
water.
then I walk back to
1002.
the woman in the green
dress is gone
but where she was
sitting on that chair
there is her green dress,
nicely folded, her shoes
and her panty
hose.
her purse is gone.
the receptionist slides
back the glass partition
and smiles at me:
“we’ll be with you
soon!”
as she slides the
partition closed
I get up and walk out of there,
fast.
I take the elevator down.
soon I am at the first floor and
then I am outside on the
street.
as I walk away from the
building I look back.
flames are rising from
the windows of the tenth
floor and spreading up.
nobody on the street seems
to notice.
I decide to have lunch.
I look for a place to eat.
I walk along humming the
same little song that the big
woman hummed.
it’s now about 95 degrees on a hot
Wednesday afternoon in
August
exactly one
year from
yesterday.