LITMIR.BIZ

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of the world, sharper than

       his razor, and his gut-feel hangs like a wet polyp; and he

       self-decisions himself defeated trying to shake his

       hung beard from razor in water (like life), not warm enough.

       Daumier. Rue Transnonain, le 15 Avril, 1843. (Lithograph.) Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale.

      “She has a face unlike that of any woman I have ever known.”

      “What is it? A love affair?”

      “Silly. I can’t love a woman. Besides, she’s pregnant.”

      I can paint—a flower eaten by a snake; that sunlight is a

       lie; and that markets smell of shoes and naked boys clothed,

       and under everything some river, some beat, some twist that

       clambers along the edge of my temple and bites nip-dizzy …

       men drive cars and paint their houses,

       but they are mad; men sit in barber chairs; buy hats.

       Corot. Recollection of Mortefontaine. Paris, Louvre

      “I must write Kaiser, though I think he’s a homosexual.”

      “Are you still reading Freud?”

      “Page 299.”

      She made a little hat and he fastened two snaps under one

       arm, reaching up from the bed like a long feeler from the

       snail, and she went to church, and he thought now I h’ve

       time and the dog.

      About church: the trouble with a mask is it

       never changes.

      So rude the flowers that grow and do not grow beautiful.

       So magic the chair on the patio that does not hold legs

       and belly and arm and neck and mouth that bites into the

       wind like the end of a tunnel.

      He turned in bed and thought: I am searching for some

       segment in the air. It floats about the people’s heads.

       When it rains on the trees it sits between the branches

       warmer and more blood-real than the dove.

       Orozco. Christ Destroying the Cross. Hanover, Dartmouth College, Baker Library.

      He burned away in sleep.

      on the sidewalk and in the sun

      I have seen an old man around town recently

       carrying an enormous pack.

       he uses a walking stick

       and moves up and down the streets

       with this pack strapped to his back.

      I keep seeing him.

      if he’d only throw that pack away, I think,

       he’d have a chance, not much of a chance but a chance.

      and he’s in a tough district—east Hollywood.

       they aren’t going to give him a

       dry bone in east Hollywood.

      he is lost. with that pack.

       on the sidewalk and in the sun.

      god almighty, old man, I think, throw away that pack.

      then I drive on, thinking of my own problems.

      the last time I saw him he was not walking.

       it was ten thirty a.m. on north Bronson and

       hot, very hot, and he sat on a little ledge, bent,

       the pack still strapped to his back.

      I slowed down to look at his face.

       I had seen one or two other men in my life

       with looks on their faces like that.

      I speeded up and turned on the radio.

      I knew that look.

      I would never see him again.

      the elephants of Vietnam

      first they used to, he told me,

       gun and bomb the elephants,

       you could hear their screams over all the other sounds;

       but you flew high to bomb the people,

       you never saw it,

       just a little flash from way up

       but with the elephants

       you could watch it happen

       and hear how they screamed;

       I’d tell my buddies, listen, you guys

       stop that,

       but they just laughed

       as the elephants scattered

       throwing up their trunks (if they weren’t blown off)

       opening their mouths

       wide and

       kicking their dumb clumsy legs

       as blood ran out of big holes in their bellies.

      then we’d fly back,

       mission completed.

       we’d get everything:

       convoys, dumps, bridges, people, elephants and

       all the rest.

      he told me later, I

       felt bad about the

       elephants.

       dark night poem

      they say that

       nothing is wasted:

       either that

       or

       it all is.

       (uncollected)

       the last days of the suicide kid

      I can see myself now

       after all these suicide days and nights,

       being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes

       (of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)

       by a subnormal and bored nurse …

       there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair …

       almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull looking

       for the mercy of death …

      “Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski?”

       “O, yeah, yeah …”

       the children walk past and I don’t even exist

       and lovely women walk by

       with big hot hips

       and warm buttocks and tight hot everything

       praying to be loved

       and I don’t

       even exist …

      “It’s the first sunlight we’ve had in 3 days,

       Mr. Bukowski.”

       “Oh, yeah, yeah.”

       there I am

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