bukowski

Vallejo writing about
loneliness while starving to
death ;
Van Gogh’s ear rejected by a
whore ;
Rimbaud running off to Africa
to look for gold and finding
an incurable case of syphilis ;
Beethoven gone deaf ;
Pound dragged through the streets
in a cage ;
Chatterton taking rat poison ;
Hemingway’s brains dropping into
the orange juice ;
Pascal cutting his wrists
in the bathtub ;
Artaud locked up with the mad ;
Dostoevsky stood up against a wall ;
Crane jumping into a boat propeller ;
Lorca shot in the road by Spanish
troops ;
Berryman jumping off a bridge ;
Burroughs shooting his wife ;
Mailer knifing his.
—that’s what they want :
a God damned show
a lit billboard
in the middle of hell.
that’s what they want,
that bunch of
dull
inarticulate
safe
dreary
admirers of
carnivals. 

big sloppy wounded dog
hit by a car and walking
toward the curbing
making enormous
sounds
your body curled
red blowing out of
ass and mouth.

I stare at him and
drive on
for how would it look
for me to be holding
a dying dog on a
curbing in Arcadia,
blood seeping into my
shirt and pants and
shorts and socks and
shoes? it would just
look dumb.
besides, I figure the 2
horse in the first race
and I wanted to hook
him with the 9
in the second. I
figured the daily to
pay around $140 
so I had to let that
dog die alone there
just across from the
shopping center
with the ladies look-
ing for bargains
as the first bit of
snow fell upon the
Sierra Madre. 

this poet he’
d been drink
ing 2 or 3 day
ys and he wa
lked out on t
he stage and
looked at th
at audience
and he just k
new he was
going to do i
t. there was
a grand pian
o on stage a
nd he walke
d over and li
fted the lid a
nd vomited i
nside the pia
no. then he c
losed the lid
and gave his
reading.

they had to r
emove the st
rings from t
he piano and
wash out the
insides and r
estring it.

I can unders
tand why th
ey never invi
ted him bac
k. but to pas
s the word o
n to other un
iversities tha
t he was a
poet who lik
ed to vomit i
nto grand pi
anos was un
fair.

they never c
onisdered th
e quality of
his reading.
I know this
poet: he’s ju
st like the re
st of us: he’l
l vomit anyw
here for mon
ey. 

… charles bukowski

I know that some night
in some bedroom
soon
my fingers will
rift 
through 
soft clean
hair

songs such as no radio
plays

all sadness, grinning
into flow.

… charles bukowski

me, and
that old woman :
sorrow

all I’ve ever known are whores, ex-prostitutes, 
madwomen. I see men with quiet,
gentle women—I see them in the supermarkets, 
I see them walking down the streets together,
I see them in their apartments: people at
peace, living together. I know that their
peace is only partial, but there is
peace, often hours and days of peace.

all I’ve ever known are pill freaks, alcoholics,
whores, ex-prostitutes, madwomen. 

when one leaves
another arrives
worse than her predecessor.

I see so many men with quiet clean girls in
gingham dresses
girls with faces that are not wolverine or
predatory.

“don’t ever bring a whore around,” I tell my
few friends, “I’ll fall in love with her.”

“you couldn’t stand a good woman, Bukowski.”

I need a good woman. I need a good woman
more than I need this typewriter, more than
I need my automobile, more than I need
Mozart; I need a god woman so badly that I
can taste her in the air, I can feel her
at my fingertips, I can see sidewalks built
for her feet to walk upon,
I can see pillows for her head,
I can feel my waiting laughter,
I can see her petting a cat,
I can see her sleeping,
I can see her slippers on the floor. 

I know that she exists
but where is she upon this earth
as the whores keep finding me?

 …  charles bukowksi

“I’ve made it,” she said, “I’ve come
through.” she had on new boots, pants
and a white sweater. “I know what I 
want now.” she was from Chicago and 
had settled in L.A.’s Fairfax district.

“you promised me champagne,”
she said.
“I was drunk when I phoned. how about
a beer?”
“no, pass me your joint.”
she inhaled, let it out :
“this isn’t very good stuff.”
she handed it back.

“there’s a difference,” I said, “between
making it and simply becoming hard.”

“you like my boots?”
“yes, very nice.”
“listen, I’ve got to go. can I use
your bathroom?”
“sure.”

when she came out she had on a
large lipstick mouth. I hadn’t seen
one of those since I was a boy.
I kissed her in the doorway
feeling the lipstick rub off on my
lips.

“goodbye,” she said.
“goodbye,” I said.

she went up the walk toward her car.
I closed the door.
she knew what she wanted and it wasn’t
me.
I know more women like that than any
other kind.

… charles bukowski

horses running
with her miles away
laughing with a
fool

Bach and the hydrogen bomb
and her miles away
laughing with a
fool

the banking system
bumper jacks
gondolas in Venice
and her miles away
laughing with a
fool

you’ve never quite
seen a stairway before 
(each step looking at you
separately)
and outside
the newsboy looking
immortal
as the cars go by
under a sun
like an enemy
and you wonder
why it’s so hard
to go crazy—  
if you’re not already
crazy

until now
you’ve never seen a
stairway that looked like
a stairway
a doorknob that looked like
a doorknob
and sounds like these sounds

and when the spider comes out
and looks at you
finally
you don’t hate it
finally
with her miles away
laughing with a
fool 

… charles bukowksi

I know a woman
who keeps buying puzzles
chinese
puzzles
blocks
wires
pieces that finally fit
into some order.
she works it out
mathematically
she solves all her
puzzles
lives down by the sea
puts sugar out for the ants
and believes
ultimately
in a better world.
her hair is white
she seldom combs it
her teeth are snaggled
and she wears loose shapeless
coveralls over a body most
women would wish they had.
for many years she irritated me
with what I considered her
eccentricities—  
like soaking eggshells in water
(to feed the plants so that 
they’d get calcium).
but finally when I think of her
life
and compare it to other lives
more dazzling, original
and beautiful
I realize that she has hurt fewer
people than anybody I know
(and by hurt I simply mean hurt).
she has had some terrible times,
times when maybe I should have
helped her more
for she is the mother of my only
child
and we were once great lovers,
but she has come through
like I said
she has hurt fewer people than
anybody I know,
and if you look at it like that,
well,
she has created a better world.
she has won.

Frances, this poem is for
you.  

… charles bukowski

she drives into the parking lot while
I am leaning up against the fender of my car.
she’s drunk and her eyes are wet with tears:
“you son of a bitch, you fucked me when you
didn’t want to. you told me to keep phoning
you, you told me to move closer into town,
then you told me to leave you alone.”

it’s all quite dramatic and I enjoy it.
“sure, well, what do you want?”

“I want to talk to you, I want to go to your
place and talk with you … “

“I’m with somebody now. she’s in getting a
sandwich.”

“I want to talk to you … it takes a while
to get over things. I need more time.”

“sure. wait until she comes out. we’re not
inhuman. we’ll all have a drink together.”

“shit,” she says, “oh shit!”

she jumps into her car and drives off.

the other one comes out: “who was that?”

“an ex-friend.”

now she’s gone and I’m sitting here drunk
and my eyes seem wet with tears.  
it’s very quiet and I feel like I have a spear
rammed into the center of my gut.

I walk into the bathroom and puke.

mercy, I think, doesn’t the human race know anything
about mercy? 

… charles bukowski