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What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

Page 15

by Charles Bukowski

“come on, chicken,” she laughs and we go in

  and stand with the icecream people.

  none of them are cursing or threatening

  the clerks.

  there seem to be no hangovers or

  grievances.

  I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave

  that flows about. I feel like a leper in a

  beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and

  sit in the car and eat them.

  I must admit they are quite good. a curious new

  world. (all my friends tell me I am looking

  better. “you’re looking good, man, we thought you

  were going to die there for a while…”)

  —those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the

  hospitals…

  and later that night

  there is use for the pecker, use for

  love, and it is glorious,

  long and true,

  and afterwards we speak of easy things;

  our heads by the open window with the moonlight

  looking through, we sleep in each other’s

  arms.

  the icecream people make me feel good,

  inside and out.

  like a cherry seed in the throat

  naked in that bright

  light

  the four horse falls

  and throws a 112 pound

  boy into the hooves

  of 35,000 eyes.

  good night, sweet

  little

  motherfucker.

  3

  the beads swing and the clouds obscure

  the ordinary café of the world

  new worlds shine in the dust

  come up through the slums of the mind only

  to choke on mosquito

  ideas.

  it’s most difficult

  like eating a salad

  in the ordinary café of the world;

  it’s most difficult

  to create art

  here.

  look about. the pieces to work with are

  missing. they must be created or

  found.

  the critics should be generous and the critics are

  seldom

  generous.

  they think it’s easy to

  put out water with fire.

  but there’s been no wasted effort

  no matter what they’ve done

  to us:

  the critics

  the lost women

  the lost jobs,

  damn them all anyhow

  they’re hardly as interesting as

  this ordinary café, this ordinary world,

  we know there should be a better place,

  an easier place,

  but there’s not;

  that’s our secret

  and it’s not

  much.

  but it’s enough.

  we have chosen the ordinary,

  withering fire.

  to create art means

  to be crazy alone

  forever.

  on shaving

  miraculous

  to grow old

  through the wars & the women

  rainy nights

  stubbed toes

  toothaches

  walls

  landladies

  jails

  hospitals

  nightmares

  I only shave a little

  under the nose &

  a touch below each

  cheekbone &

  the neck

  under the chin

  the remainder remains—

  hair & man

  miraculous

  to grow old

  through the wars & the women

  that I did not become a great boxer

  with much courage

  does not matter

  even though it was my

  desire

  I look at my hands shaving

  my face

  & my nose is too long

  my cheeks sag

  my teeth are my own (though I suppose

  half are missing)

  & I’m aware of ghosts & spirits & clouds

  & blood & weeping & skeletons &

  much more

  it’s warm tonight &

  quiet while

  shaving

  & sometimes when I am ready to sleep &

  I am upon my back

  I think

  yes

  it’s all been very

  nice

  face up

  hands by side

  gliding through the

  years

  miraculous

  to grow old

  though the wars & the women

  & not to murder it by

  thinking

  too much about

  it all

  rather,

  letting it all be

  whatever it was/is

  shaving is something like

  seeing yourself in a

  movie

  the cup of soap takes on a

  gentleness & the brush & the

  mirror too

  miraculous

  to grow old &

  shave

  all the years of agony

  now

  seem almost

  unimportant

  & to shave an old face

  allows the thoughts to be

  steady and kind like

  the electric light

  above the

  mirror

  I hear an airplane

  overhead

  & there’s a man flying

  so high there

  alone

  making the sound

  that comes through the ceiling and then

  fades away

  I listen to a dog barking

  someplace in this

  neighborhood & I

  rinse the razor & place it behind

  the mirror on the wall.

  school days

  I’m in bed.

  it’s morning

  and I hear:

  where are your socks?

  please get dressed!

  why does it take you so long to

  get dressed?

  where’s the brush?

  all right, I’ll give you a head

  band!

  what time is it?

  where’s the clock?

  where did you put the clock?

  aren’t you dressed yet?

  where’s the brush?

  where’s your sandwich?

  did you make a sandwich?

  I’ll make your sandwich.

  honey and peanut butter.

  and an orange.

  there.

  where’s the brush?

  I’ll use a comb.

  all right, holler. you lost the brush!

  where did you lose the brush?

  all right. now isn’t that better?

  where’s your coat?

  go find your coat.

  your coat has to be around somewhere!

  listen, what are you doing?

  what are you playing with?

  now you’ve spilled it all!

  I hear them open the door

  go down the stairway,

  get into the car.

  I hear them drive away. they are gone,

  down the hill

  on the way to

  nursery school.

  neither a borrower nor a lender be

  I’m at the racetrack every day

  and he is too.

  he used to be in the movie

  industry.

  I know him because somebody

  I know knows him.

  you know how that goes:

  I really don’t know him.

  anyway, day after day,

  he sees

  me.

  he yells my name.

  my last name.

  I’ll shout a greeting


  back.

  once in a while there

  will be a small

  conversation, but not

  much.

  the other day

  I was turning from the

  window, money still

  in hand, had made a

  minor score, 20 win

  on a horse that paid

  $11.80 (that’s

  one hundred eighteen

  dollars)

  and he was

  standing

  there.

  “how you doing?”

  he asked.

  “I got lucky,”

  I answered.

  “I haven’t hit a

  thing,” he said,

  “been dropping

  between 1500 and

  two thousand a

  day.”

  “why don’t you

  go home?” I asked.

  “lay down and take

  a rest?”

  he put his hand

  out.

  in it was a quarter

  and a

  dime.

  “I don’t have

  enough for a

  bet.

  can you loan

  me

  something?

  anything?”

  it was the

  6th race.

  I hesitated,

  then handed

  him a

  20.

  “thanks, I’ll see

  you tomorrow.”

  and then he

  was

  gone.

  although I did

  see him after

  the 6th race

  his head was down

  and he was

  slowly

  walking

  along.

  I moved off and

  took a

  seat.

  I didn’t see him

  any more that

  day.

  or the next.

  or the

  next.

  or the next

  week.

  maybe he’s working

  in the movie industry

  again.

  he’s a nicer guy

  than most,

  I almost like

  him.

  or maybe he’s still

  at the track,

  hiding out.

  it’s embarrassing.

  I don’t need the

  20 that much.

  they’ve been running

  good.

  and now I’m almost

  afraid I’ll see him

  out there.

  it’s almost as if I was

  in debt to

  him.

  Shakespeare had it

  right.

  sometimes even putting a nickel into a parking meter feels good—

  precious grenades inside my skull,

  I’d rather grow roses than nurture self-pity,

  but sometimes it really begins to tell on me

  and I have visions of house trailers and

  hookers slipping into giant volcanic cracks

  just south of Santa Barbara.

  I guess what makes me feel better

  are the truly sane: the motorcycle cop

  in a clean uniform who gives me a ticket and

  then rides away on two wheels like a man

  who never had an itchy crotch.

  or the Southern California Gas Company man

  will ill-fitting dentures

  who knocks on my door at 8:15 a.m. and

  lights up the room with his piranha smile.

  yes,

  the real miracles are the thousands of tiny

  people who know exactly what they are doing.

  I used to look for inspiration in higher

  places

  but the higher you go

  like to Plato or God

  the less space there is in which to

  stand.

  check it out some day. you’re driving down

  the street and there’s a guy hanging onto

  the end of a hydraulic jack

  sweat bathing his naked gut

  his eyes slitted as his

  body shakes and trembles

  but he holds on as if to an ultimate truth, and

  you smile and

  you put it into second gear

  check the rearview mirror and think,

  yes, I can make it too, and you light a

  cigarette with one hand

  turn on the radio with the other

  and let the good life roll along like

  that.

  Mahler

  the phone rings and somebody says,

  “hey, they made a movie about

  Mahler. you ought to go see it.

  he was as fucked-up as you are.”

  the phone rings again. it’s

  somebody else: “you ought to see

  that Mahler movie. when you get high

  you always talk about Mahler’s music.”

  it’s true: I like the way

  Mahler wandered about in his

  music and still retained his

  passion.

  he must have looked like an

  earthquake walking down the

  street.

  he was a gambler and he shot

  the works

  but I’d feel foolish

  walking into a movie house.

  I make my own

  movies.

  I am the best kind of German:

  in love with the music

  of a great Jew.

  fellow countryman

  at the track

  heard the voice behind me,

  “Hank…”

  I turned and here was this

  German youth,

  maybe age 34,

  needed a shave, beer on his

  breath.

  “I know you don’t like to

  be bothered…but I have

  this book…”

  “all right, kid, look I have

  to find a place…”

  I took the book over to

  a trash can, put it on

  top, asked his name,

  autographed it,

  handed it back.

  “I am shaking,” he

  said.

  “it’s all right,” I said,

  “I’m just a horseplayer.”

  “I’ve been looking for

  you many days…”

  “kid,” I said, “listen to

  me, I can’t drink with you

  or pal with you.

  I have to leave

  now.”

  “oh, I understand,”

  he said.

  that was good.

  I didn’t see him anymore

  that day.

  the next day I was

  sitting alone in a small box

  section.

  then I heard a voice behind

  me.

  “hello, Hank,” it said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “who do you like in this

  race?” he asked.

  “I mean, out of all your

  experience, who do

  you like?”

  I turned.

  it was my friend of

  yesterday.

  he had another book

  in his lap.

  I recognized it.

  it was full of photographs

  and writing about one of

  my trips to

  Europe.

  I grabbed him by the

  throat, shook him a bit,

  then took the book, ripped down

  his pants, his shorts and

  jammed the book up his

  ass,

  then I lifted him up over my

  head,

  carried him down to the

  railing,

  tossed him onto the

  track

  where the 6 horse


  on post parade

  stepped onto the middle of

  his back.

  his eyeballs

  squirted out

  and rolled around

  looking for

  Andernach

  and I got up and

  went to the bar

  for a pretzel and a

  beer.

  the young man on the bus stop bench

  he sits all day at the bus stop

  at Sunset and Western

  his sleeping bag beside him.

  he’s dirty.

  nobody bothers him.

  people leave him alone.

  the police leave him alone.

  he could be the 2nd coming of Christ

  but I doubt it.

  the soles of his shoes are completely

  gone.

  he just laces the tops on

  and sits and watches traffic.

  I remember my own youthful days

  (although I traveled lighter)

  they were similar:

  park benches

  street corners

  tarpaper shacks in Georgia for

  $1.25 a week

  not wanting the skid row church

  hand-outs

  too crazy to apply for relief

  daytimes spent laying in public parks

  bugs in the grass biting

  looking into the sky

  little insects whirling above my head

  the breathing of white air

  just breathing and waiting.

  life becomes difficult:

  being ignored

  and ignoring.

  everything turns into white air

  the head fills with white air

  and as invisible women sit in rooms

  with successful bright-eyed young men

  conversing brilliantly about everything

  your sex drive

  vanishes and it really

  doesn’t matter.

  you don’t want food

  you don’t want shelter

  you don’t want anything.

 

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