Run With the Hunted (65 page)

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Authors: Charles Bukowski

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attempting to collect bills

carries its own

attrition

which also includes dealing with the

petty bitchings and demands

of many

so-called genius darlings who are

not.

I won't blame him for getting

out

and hope he sends me photos of his

Rose Lane, his

Gardenia Avenue.

will I have to seek other

promulgators?

that fellow in the Russian

fur hat?

or that beast in the East

with all that hair

in his ears, with those wet and

greasy lips?

or will my editor-publisher

upon exiting for that world of Trollius and

trellis

hand over the

machinery

of his former trade to a

cousin, a

daughter or

some Poundian from Big

Sur?

or will he just pass the legacy on

to the

Shipping Clerk

who will rise like

Lazarus,

fingering new-found

importance?

one can imagine terrible

things:

“Mr. Chinaski, all your work

must now be submitted in

Rondo form

and

typed

triple-spaced on rice

paper.”

power corrupts,

life aborts

and all you

have left

is a

bunch of

warts.

“no, no, Mr. Chinaski:

Rondo
form!”

“hey, man,” I'll ask,

“haven't you heard of

the thirties?”

“the thirties? what's

that?”

my present editor-publisher

and I

at times

did discuss the thirties,

the Depression

and

some of the little tricks it

taught usâ

like how to endure on almost

nothing

and move forward

anyhow.

well, John, if it happens enjoy your

divertissement to

plant husbandry,

cultivate and aerate

between

bushes, water only in the

early morning, spread

shredding to discourage

weed growth

and

as I do in my writing:

use plenty of

manure.

and thank you

for locating me there at

5124 DeLongpre Avenue

somewhere between

alcoholism and

madness.

together we

laid down the gauntlet

and there are takers

even at this late date

still to be

found

as the fire sings

through the

trees.

my first computer poem

have I gone the way of the deathly death?

will this machine finish me

where booze and women and poverty

have not?

is Whitman laughing at me from his grave?

does Creeley care?

is this properly spaced?

am I?

will Ginsberg howl?

soothe me!

get me lucky!

get me good!

get me going!

I am a virgin again.

a 70-year-old virgin.

don't fuck me, machine

do.

who cares?

talk to me, machine!

we can drink together.

we can have fun.

think of all the people who will hate me at this

computer.

we'll add them to the others

and continue right

on.

so this is the beginning

not the

end.

Dinosauria, we

born like this

into this

as the chalk faces smile

as Mrs. Death laughs

as the elevators break

as political landscapes dissolve

as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree

as the oily fish spit out their oily prey

as the sun is masked

we are

born like this

into this

into these carefully mad wars

into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness

into bars where people no longer speak to each other

into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings

born into this

into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die

into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty

into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed

into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes

born into this

walking and living through this

dying because of this

muted because of this

castrated

debauched

disinherited

because of this

fooled by this

used by this

pissed on by this

made crazy and sick by this

made violent

made inhuman

by this

the heart is blackened

the fingers reach for the throat

the gun

the knife

the bomb

the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god

the fingers reach for the bottle

the pill

the powder

we are born into this sorrowful deadliness

we are born into a government 60 years in debt

that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt

and the banks will burn

money will be useless

there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets

it will be guns and roving mobs

land will be useless

food will become a diminishing return

nuclear power will be taken over by the many

explosions will continually shake the earth

radiated robot men will stalk each other

the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms

Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground

the sun will not be seen and it will always be night

trees will die

all vegetation will die

radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men

the sea will be poisoned

the lakes and rivers will vanish

rain will be the new gold

the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind

the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases

and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition

the petering out of supplies

the natural effect of general decay

and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard

born out of that.

the sun still hidden there

awaiting the next chapter.

Luck

once

we were young

at this

machine â¦

drinking

smoking

typing

it was a most

splendid

miraculous

time

still

only now

instead of

moving toward

time

moves toward

makes each word

drill

into the

paper

clear

fast

hard

feeding a

closing

space.

the bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too tough for him,

I say, stay in there, I'm not going

to let anybody see

you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I pour whiskey on him and inhale

cigarette smoke

and the whores and the bartenders

and the grocery clerks

never know that

he's

in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too tough for him,

I say,

stay down, do you want to mess

me up?

you want to screw up the

works?

you want to blow my book sales in

Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out

but I'm too clever, I only let him out

at night sometimes

when everybody's asleep.

I say, I know that you're there,

so don't be

sad.

then I put him back,

but he's singing a little

in there, I haven't quite let him

die

and we sleep together like

that

with our

secret pact

and it's nice enough to

make a man

weep, but I don't

weep, do

you?

Acknowledgments

The material in this reader is reprinted from the following books published by Black Sparrow:
The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses over the Hills
(1969),
Post Office
(1971),
Mockingbird Wish Me Luck
(1972),
South of No North
(1973),
Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame
(1974),
Factotum
(1975),
Love Is a Dog from Hell
(1977),
Women
(1978),
Play the Piano Drunk
(1979),
Ham on Rye
(1982),
Hot Water Music
(1983),
You Get So Alone at Times It Just Makes Sense
(1986),
The Roominghouse Madrigals
(1988),
Hollywood
(1989),
Septuagenarian Stew
(1990), and
The Last Night of the Earth Poems
(1992).