New Poems Book 3

by Charles Bukowski

  THE UNFOLDING

  I don’t know

  but I think sometimes that fellows like

  Ezra and Céline and Ernie, Babe Ruth, Dillinger,

  DiMaggio, Joe Louis, Kennedy, LaMotta,

  Graziano, Willie Pep and Roosevelt

  just had a little more than the

  rest of us.

  or is it just ballyhoo and nostalgia

  which seems to separate them from

  us?

  actually, there are probably others

  here among us

  who are better at what they do

  (or at least just as good)

  as our heroes of the past

  but

  for us now

  they are too close—

  we pass them in the hall

  see them waiting at stop lights

  or buying

  Xmas trees and windshield wipers

  or we see them

  standing quietly in line at the

  post office.

  one of the few grand things

  in this life

  are the brave and talented people

  living

  among

  us

  unnoticed.

  life has both kind

  and unkind

  ways.

  DRUNK BEFORE NOON

  she knew Hemingway in Cuba

  and she took a photo of him one day

  drunk before noon—

  stretched out on the floor

  face puffed with drink

  gut hanging out

  hardly looking

  macho

  at all.

  he heard the click of the camera,

  lifted his head a bit from the

  floor and

  said, “honey, please don’t ever publish that

  photo!”

  I have the photo framed now

  on the south wall

  facing the door.

  the lady gifted me

  this.

  now her book has just been

  published in Italy and is

  called

  Hemingway.

  there are many photos:

  Hemingway with the lady and her

  dog.

  Hemingway’s work

  room.

  Hemingway’s library with mounted water buffalo

  head.

  Hemingway feeding a

  cat.

  Hemingway’s bed.

  Hemingway and Mary, Venezia, 31

  Ottobre 1948.

  Hemingway, Venezia, Marzo

  1954.

  but

  no photo

  of Hemingway

  soused before

  noon.

  for a man who was very good

  with the word

  the lady kept

  hers.

  THUMBS UP, THUMBS DOWN

  “the acting was really good, wasn’t

  it?” she asks.

  “no,” I answer, “I didn’t like it.”

  “oh?” she says.

  I didn’t know what else to say.

  once again we have disagreed on

  a performance.

  this time it was on tv.

  I rise from the couch.

  “please let the cat in,” she says.

  I let the cat in.

  then I walk up the stairway.

  I won’t see my wife again until bedtime.

  I sit here, light a cigar.

  I can’t help it, it’s difficult for me to

  like much of what is being currently

  written and performed.

  my wife tends to blame my

  childhood, a certainly restricted and

  loveless

  upbringing.

  yet I tend to believe, that in spite of

  this, I still have the ability to make good

  judgments.

  well, things could be worse:

  earthquake, a 6-day rain, a run-

  over

  cat.

  I lean back, draw deeply on the

  cigar, then let it all out:

  a wondrous cloud of blue-gray

  smoke

  as my insufficient critical soul winks at

  eternity and then

  yawns.

  THEY ARE AFTER ME

  more and more I get letters

  from young men who say they are

  going to take my place, that I’ve had it too good

  for too long, that they’re going to kick my ass,

  strip me of my poetic black belt, etc.

  I am astonished how sure

  they are of their literary talent.

  I suppose they have been bolstered

  by their wives, girlfriends, mothers,

  teachers, barbers, uncles, brothers,

  waitresses and even the gas station

  attendant.

  but why would they want to knock

  a nice guy like me off his perch?

  I listen to Mahler, tip 20 percent, give

  money to bums, get up each morning

  and feed 9 cats.

  why can’t I keep my black belt a little while

  longer?

  I get drunken phone calls at 3 a.m.

  “you’ve had it, Chinaski, you’ve sold

  out!

  I’m the REAL ARTIST, you son-of-a-bitch,

  and I’m out on the street!

  I’m waiting for you outside right now, I’m

  going to beat the shit out of you,

  Chinaski!”

  or they come to the door and if I don’t

  respond, the night rings with their

  curses and beer cans are flung against

  the window.

  all these ranting, raving, would-be poets!

  and me, such a nice guy,

  they want my charmed ass.

  I’m sure I’ll be replaced some day, perhaps I already

  have been replaced.

  I understand how the literary game works.

  I’ve had my fling, a long fling

  and I’m old enough so that I could die in the wink of

  an eye.

  I shouldn’t be smoking this big cigar

  or drinking one beer after

  the other.

  has my black belt already slipped down around

  my ankles?

  am I ready to step aside?

  patience, patience, fellows, you’ll have

  your day, not all, but one or two of

  the best of you.

  meanwhile, can’t you find somebody

  else to badger?

  must I always be a part of your agenda?

  I’m a good guy, I haven’t punched anybody

  in the mouth for ten years.

  I even voted for the first time in my life.

  I’m a responsible citizen

  keep my car washed

  greet my neighbors

  talk to the mailman.

  the owner of the neighborhood sushi bar bows to me

  when I walk in.

  yet the other day somebody mailed me

  a letter, the pages smeared with

  shit.

  it seems like

  every young poet wants my charmed ass!

  please wait, fellows, I will accommodate you in time.

  meanwhile, let me keep playing with my poem-toys,

  let me continue for just a little

  while longer!

  thank

  you.

  FEELING FAIRLY GOOD TONIGHT

  Thou shalt not fail as a writer

  because the vultures are waiting in the wings ready

  to swoop down and sign their

  “I told you so’s.”

  Thou shalt not fail as a writer

  because the very act of writing is the best protection

  from the madness of the

  world.

  Thou shalt not fail as a
writer

  because it’s the finest form of self-entertainment

  ever

  invented.

  but Thou shall be finished as a writer

  upon the hour or day of your

  demise

  only to have thick new books of yours

  appear for years afterwards compiled

  from the stockpile of poems you

  left behind for your

  publisher.

  let it be so:

  these wisps of magic

  wrested from the clutch

  of

  death.

  THERE’S A POET ON EVERY BAR STOOL

  I was with my lady

  down at the beach.

  she was an over-

  sexed

  young

  lady.

  she was on fire

  with sex.

  to her

  sex was

  everything:

  the quivering

  apex

  the spouting

  Nirvana.

  that was

  fine with me

  although

  I sometimes

  longed for

  other

  things

  too.

  like I said,

  I was with my lady

  down at the beach.

  we had stopped at

  a little park

  where

  the old folks were

  playing

  shuffleboard.

  I was

  tired

  after nights and

  nights of

  action

  and in addition

  I had failed her

  miserably

  the night

  before.

  the lady

  pointed to

  the old

  folks.

  they all seemed

  to me to be

  very pale,

  slow,

  drained.

  “there!

  over there! why don’t

  you go join

  THEM!”

  well, I didn’t care much

  for

  shuffleboard.

  I took her

  by the elbow and

  guided her into a

  restaurant

  along the

  promenade.

  we each had a cold

  drink.

  then I re-ordered

  two more

  and went to the

  men’s room.

  when I came out

  she was engaged in a

  lively chat

  with a

  young fellow

  with a head

  like

  a pig.

  I was not

  jealous.

  in fact,

  I would not have

  minded

  at all

  leaving them there alone

  together

  but

  we had driven down

  in her

  car.

  so

  I walked over

  and sat down

  next to

  her.

  “hey!” she said

  to me

  brightly:

  “this guy writes

  poetry

  too!”

  “umm umm,”

  I said,

  lifted my glass

  and took a

  sip.

  then I looked at

  him

  and smiled:

  “I guess we both

  are in the

  same game.

  good luck to

  you …”

  my lady was

  taken aback by my

  cordiality.

  but

  think about

  it:

  have you ever

  tried riding a bus

  from Ocean Park to

  East Hollywood?

  banging up

  almost every day

  against the

  same young female

  buckboard

  may finally

  drive an old man

  to the edge of

  his grave

  but

  there are worse

  things.

  VALET

  I slide out of my battered

  BMW

  tell the valet,

  “we accept but do not

  offer mercy.”

  he laughs, “hey, hey,

  I like that!”

  he is a chatty

  sort.

  he shows me his arm:

  “look, that’s from a razor.

  I was trying it one

  night until I asked myself,

  ‘why should I disfigure

  a beautiful body like

  mine?’”

  (he’s built like an

  ape.)

  “either way, you’re

  right.”

  “what do you

  mean?”

  “I mean, do it or

  don’t, you’re

  right.”

  he grins: “hey,

  yeah! that’s

  true!”

  we smile at one another.

  “I hear you write books?”

  he says.

  “that’s true,

  sometimes.”

  “where can I buy your

  shit?”

  “here and there …”

  there is a line of

  cars building up behind

  us. it is a hot stupid

  Saturday.

  they

  begin to

  honk.

  “HEY, YOU GUYS, KNOCK IT

  OFF!”

  “THEY”RE PUTTING THEM IN THE

  GATE!”

  “CUT OUT THE SHIT!”

  the mob never understands

  exchanges of

  culture.

  I move toward the

  clubhouse.

  my valet friend gets in and

  zooms off in my

  battered

  BMW.

  yes,

  almost

  anything

  makes a

  poem.

  PRESCIENCE

  I was always charmed by

  hypochromic beldams

  inchoate slatterns,

  caseated mesdames,

  slimy prostitutes and

  piss-drinking

  shrews.

  but now I prefer to

  live alone and watch

  as my cat sits in the

  window

  devouring an abandoned

  cigarette.

  10:45 A.M.

  so I get up and go to the

  bathroom,

  throw water

  on my face,

  look at that mug

  so long ago abandoned by beauty; I

  wince, gag, giggle.

  heroically.

  hero poet

  hero man

  hero friend

  hero hero

  hero lover

  hero bather

  hero

  bullshitter.

  young girls wearing nylons

  and garter belts like their mothers

  used to

  would love watching me here, watering a

  plant, putting one white egg

  into a small pot of boiling water.

  I walk over

  put one finger on the greasy refrigerator

  door, draw a horse,

  put the number 9 on him as

  the phone rings

  rings

  rings

  I lift it and say, “yes?”

  fear bounding up and down my arms,

  I don’t want to see any of them,

  I don’t want to hear from them, they should

  all vanish forever.

&nbs
p; what I need to protect me from them are

  trenches, armies, the

  blessing of a little luck.

  “Hank?” says the voice, “how are you

  doing?”

  “o.k.,” I say.

  THE HORSES OF MEXICO

  in the old days before they had Sunday

  racing in California,

  I’d drive down to Tijuana in my

  old car

  to the Agua Caliente racetrack.

  little did I realize that in Mexico the

  take was 25%

  (it was no wonder the prices were so

  short)

  and you had to pay the bandits

  in parking a dollar for

  “protection” or else there would be

  something really wrong with your car when

  you came back out.

  I had fair luck with the betting down

  there

  but the service at the food stand

  was slow and lousy but since

  the bar was efficient I just went to the

  bar.

  but I never should have driven that

  old car down there;

  a breakdown and I surely would have been

  stranded;

  I had little money, no friends, no

  parents,

  but the car held up, the old dear.

  on my good winning days, I’d

  stay over a few hours that night in one of

  the local bars;

  that always seemed to make the drive

  back shorter.

  then Sunday racing began in

  California

  so why drive all that way?

  a horse is a horse and a jock is a jock

  and a race is a race,

  but I miss Agua Caliente, that long long back

  stretch which gave the jocks in a fixed

  race plenty of time to pull their horses

  back.

  and those beautiful hills behind the track!

  just getting out of the U.S.A. for a

  day

  cured a lot of what was driving me

  crazy.

  now I drive 20 miles to the local track

  in a new car,

  sit in the clubhouse with the other safe,

  fat Americans

  and I’m going really crazy all over

  again but this time

  without a cure.

  A BIG NIGHT

  the owner of the restaurant comes to our

  table and starts philosophizing

  about a number

  of things: the national debt,

  the necessity of war,

  how to recognize a fine wine,

  the mystery of love, etc.

  of course, he says nothing new or

  exceptional and the shrimp scampi

  I am eating are

  tough.

  he laughs after each of his wise

  pronouncements.

  my wife smiles.

  I nod.

  the owner has been up front

  singing with the piano player and

  a couple of drunks.

  he’s an old white-haired guy,

  happy to be making money in the

  business

  but his singing is not too

  good: more or less old–

  fashioned, embarrassing,

  sentimental,

  and the shrimp are still