The Pleasures of the Damned. Charles Bukowski
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or just natural change and decay—
the man you knew yesterday hooking
for ten rounds or drinking for three days and
three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now
just something under a sheet or a cross
or a stone or under an easy delusion,
or packing a bible or a golf bag or a
briefcase: how they go, how they go!—all
the ones you thought would never go.
days like this. like your day today.
maybe the rain on the window trying to
get through to you. what do you see today?
what is it? where are you? the best
days are sometimes the first, sometimes
the middle and even sometimes the last.
the vacant lots are not bad, churches in
Eu rope on postcards are not bad. people in
wax museums frozen into their best sterility
are not bad, horrible but not bad. the
cannon, think of the cannon. and toast for
breakfast the coffee hot enough you
know your tongue is still there. three
geraniums outside a window, trying to be
red and trying to be pink and trying to be
geraniums. no wonder sometimes the women
cry, no wonder the mules don’t want
to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room
in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more
good day. a little bit of it. and as
the nurses come out of the building after
their shift, having had enough, eight nurses
with different names and different places
to go—walking across the lawn, some of them
want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a
hot bath, some of them want a man, some
of them are hardly thinking at all. enough
and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges,
gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of
tissue paper.
in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you’ll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you’ll keep looking
keep looking
sucking your tongue in a little
ah ah no no maybe
some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.
as the orchid dies
and the grass goes
insane, let’s have one for the lost:
I met an old man
and a tired whore
in a bar
at 8:00 in the morning
across from MacArthur Park—
we were sitting over our beers
he and I and the old whore
who had slept in an unlocked car
the night before
and wore a blue necklace.
the old guy said to me:
“look at my arms. I’m all bone.
no meat on me.”
and he pulled back his sleeves
and he was right—
bone with just a layer of skin
hanging like paper.
he said, “I don’t eat
nothin’.”
I bought him a beer and the
whore a beer.
now there, I thought, is a man
who doesn’t eat
meat, he doesn’t eat
vegetables. kind of a saint.
it was like a church in there
as only the truly lost
sit in bars on Tuesday mornings
at 8:00 a.m.
then the whore said, “Jesus,
if I don’t score tonight I’m
finished. I’m scared, I’m really
scared. you guys can go to skid row
when things get bad. but where can a
woman go?”
we couldn’t answer her.
she picked up her beer with one hand
and played with her blue beads with the
other.
I finished my beer, went to the
corner and got a Racing Form from Teddy the
newsboy—age 61.
“you got a hot one today?”
“no, Teddy, I gotta see the board; money
makes them run.”
“I’ll give you 4 bucks. bet one for
me.”
I took his 4 bucks. that would buy a sandwich,
pay parking, plus 2
coffees. I got into my car, drove
off. too early for the
track. blue beads and bones. the
universe was
bent. a cop rode his bike right up
behind me. the day had really
begun.
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.
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