Authors: Charles Bukowski
one night I started
shivering, I got
ice cold
, I shivered and
shook for 2 and one half hours, the whole
bed jumped, it was like an
earthquake.
“you’re panicking,” said my girl. “breathe deeply
and try to relax.”
“I’m not panicking,” I said. “death doesn’t
mean shit to me. this is coming from some
place that I don’t understand.”
all during the freezing and shaking,
my only thought was, well, I’ve written my 5th
novel but I haven’t made the final revisions yet.
it’s not fair that I die
now.
then I got well and revised my 5th novel and
it’s supposed to be out next spring, so you
know I won’t die, be killed, or catch a fatal
disease until then.
even in midlife I never
dreamed I’d write a novel
and here I’ve written 5, it’s a bloody
miracle, a shout from the heart,
far from the school yards of hell
which started the luck
and far from
the world of hell that followed and
which kept it
going.
here
there’s less and less reason to write as they all close in.
I’ve barricaded the doors and windows, have bottled water, canned
food, candles, tools, rope, bandages, toothpicks, catnip,
mousetraps, reading material, toilet paper, blankets, firearms,
mirrors, knives
—cigarettes, cigars, candy—
memories, regrets, my birth certificate,
photographs of
picnics
parades
invasions;
I have roach spray, fine French wine, paper clips and last year’s
calendar because
THIS COULD BE MY LAST POEM.
it could happen and, of course, I’ve considered and
reconsidered
death
but I haven’t yet come up with how, which makes me feel
rather foolish about everything,
especially now.
—just waiting is the worst.
nothing worse than waiting
just waiting. always hated to
wait. what’s there about waiting that’s so
intolerable?
—like you’re waiting for me to finish this
poem and
I don’t know exactly
how
so I won’t.
—so, if you happen to read this
in a magazine or a book
just
rip the page out
tear it up
and that’s the graceful way
to end this poem
once and for
all.
almost ever since I began writing
decades ago
I have been dogged by
whisperers and gossips
who have proclaimed
daily
weekly
yearly
that
I can’t write anymore
that now
I slip
and fall.
when I first began
there was much complaining about
the content of my
poems and stories.
“who cares about the low life of a
drunken bum?
is that all he can write about,
whores and puking?”
and now
their complaint is:
“who cares about the life of a
rich
bum?
why doesn’t he write about whores
and puking
anymore?”
the Academics consider me
too raw
and I haven’t consorted with most of the
others.
the few people I know well have nothing to do
with poetry.
there has also been envy-hatred
on the part of
some fellow writers
but I consider this
one of my finest
accomplishments.
when I first began this dangerous
game
I predicted that these
very things would
occur.
let them all rail:
if it wasn’t me,
it would just be someone
else.
these
gossips and complainers,
what have
they
accomplished
anyway?
never having risen
they
can neither
slip nor
fall.
I saw too many faces today
faces like balloons.
at times I felt like
lifting the skin
and asking,
“anybody under there?”
there are medical terms for
fear of height
for
fear of
enclosed spaces.
there are medical terms for
any number of
maladies
so
there must be a medical term
for:
“too many people.”
I’ve been stricken with
this malady
all my life:
there has always been
“too many people.”
I saw too many faces
today, hundreds of
them
with eyes, ears, lips,
mouths, chins and so
forth
and
I’ve been alone
for several hours
now
and
I feel that I am
recovering.
which is the good part
but the problem
remains
that I know I’m going to
have to go out there
among them
again.
if we can’t find the courage to go on,
what will we do?
what should we do?
what would you do?
if we can’t find the courage to go on,
then
what day
what minute
in what year
did we go
wrong?
or was it an accumulation of all the
years?
I have some answers.
to die, yes.
to go mad, maybe.
or perhaps to
gamble everything away?
if we can’t find the courage to go on,
what should we do?
what did all the others
do?
they went on
living their lives,
badly.
we’ll do the same,
probably.
living too long
takes more than
time.
yes, I know that you think
I am wrong
but
I know what is right for me
and what
is not.
may I tell you my
dream?
I am surrounded by
thick cement walls,
I am dressed in a red
robe
and I am sitting at an
organ.
there is
not a
sound.
I begin to play the
organ.
the hiss of the notes
is sharp and soft
at the same
time.
it is a slightly bitter
music
but among the dark notes
there are flashes of light and
laughter.
as I play,
the incomprehensible mystery
of the past
and of the present
becomes
comprehensible.
and best of all,
as I play,
nobody hears the music
but me.
the music is only for
me.
that is my
dream.
Jane would awaken early
(and 8:30 a.m. is early
when you go to bed at
dawn).
she would awaken crying and bitching
for a drink.
she’d keep at it, bitching and wailing,
just laying there flat on her back
and running all that noise
through my
hangover.
until finally, I’d leap out of bed
landing hard on my feet. “ALL RIGHT,
ALL RIGHT, GOD DAMN IT, SHUT UP!”
and I’d climb into the same pants, the
same shirt, the same dirty socks, I was
unshaven, unbrushed, young and mad—
mad, yes, to be shacked with a woman
ten years older than
I.
no job, behind in the rent, the same tired old
script.
down three flights of stairs and out
the back way
(the apartment house manager hung out
by the front entrance,
Mr. Notes-under-the-door, Mr.
Cop-caller, Mr. Listen-we-have-only-nice-
tenants-here).
then down the hill to the liquor
store around the corner, old Don Kaufman
who wired all the bottles
to the counter, even the cheap
stuff.
and Don would see me coming, “no, no,
not today!”
he meant no booze without
cash, I was into him pretty deep
but each time I looked at all
those bottles
I got angry because
he didn’t need all those
bottles.
“Don, I want 3 bottles of cheap
wine.”
“oh no, Hank.”
he was an old man, I terrorized
him and part of me felt bad
doing it.
the old fart should have
blown me away
with his handgun.
“Hank, you used to be such a nice
man, such a gentleman.
what’s happened?”
“look, Don, I don’t want a character
analysis, I want 3 bottles of cheap
wine.”
“when are you going to pay?”
“Don, I’m going to get an income tax
refund any day
now.”
“I can’t let you have anything,
Hank.”
then I’d take hold of the counter
and begin rocking it, ripping at it,
the bottles rattling, joints and seams
giving way
all the while
cussing my ass
off.
“all right, Hank,
all
right!
”
then
back up the hill, back through
the rear entrance, up the three
flights of stairs
and there she’d be, still in bed.
she was getting fatter and
fatter, although we seldom
ate.
“3 bottles,” I said, “of
port.”
“thank god!”
“no, thank
me
. I work the
miracles around
here.”
then
I’d pour the port into
two tall water
glasses
another day
begun.
I think of each of
them
living somewhere else
sitting somewhere else
standing somewhere else
sleeping somewhere else
or maybe feeding a
child
or
reading a
newspaper or screaming
at their
new man …
but thankfully
my female past
(for me)
has concluded
peacefully.
yet most others seem to
believe that a
new relationship will certainly
work.
that the last one
was simply the
error of
choosing a bad
mate.
just
bad taste
bad luck
bad fate.
and then there are some who
believe that old
relationships can be
revived and made new
again.
but please
if you feel that way
don’t phone
don’t write
don’t arrive
and meanwhile,
don’t
feel bruised because this
poem will last much
longer than we
did.
it deserves to:
you see
its strength is
that it seeks
no
mate at
all.
he met her at the racetrack, a strawberry
blonde with round hips, well-bosomed, long legs,
turned-up nose, flower mouth, in a pink dress,
wearing white high-heeled shoes.
she began asking him questions about various
horses while looking up at him with her pale blue
eyes.
he suggested the bar and they had a drink, then
watched the next race together.
he hit fifty-win on a sixty-to-one shot and she
jumped up and down.
then she whispered in his ear,
“you’re the magic man! I want to fuck you!”
he grinned and said, “I’d like to, but
Marie … my wife …”
she laughed, “we’ll go to a motel!”
so they cashed the ticket, went to the parking lot,
got into her car. “I’ll drive you back when
we’re finished,” she smiled.
they found a motel about a mile
west. she parked, they got out, checked in, went to
room 302.
they had stopped for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s
on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the
cellophane. as she undressed he poured two.
she had a marvelous young body. she sat on the edge of
the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he
undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old
but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day
ever.
then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and
his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over
and grabbed him between the legs, bent over
and went down on him.
he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.
finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a
miracle, but soon it ended, and when she
went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks
thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never
know.
she came out and they sat in bed
making small talk.
“I’m going to shower now,” he told her,
“I’ll be out soon.”
“o.k., cutie,” she said.
he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the
perfume, the woman-smell.
“hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.
“I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from the
shower.
he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom
door and stepped out.
the motel room was empty.
she was gone.
on some impulse he ran to the closet, pulled the door
open: nothing there but coat hangers.
then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his underwear,
his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,
all the money, his shoes, his stockings, everything.
on another impulse he looked under the bed.
nothing.
then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,
standing on the dresser.
he walked over and poured a drink.
as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser
mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.
he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself
in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.
he had no idea what to do next.
he carried the whiskey back to the bed, sat down,
lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the
boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat
and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and
forth.