Charles Bukowski
if we take ---
if we take what we can see---
the engines driving us mad,
lovers finally hating;
this fish in the market
staring upward into our minds;
flowers rotting, flies web-caught;
riots, roars of caged lions,
clowns in love with dollar bills,
nations moving people like pawns;
daylight thieves with beautiful
nighttime wives and wines;
the crowded jails,
the commonplace unemployed,
dying grass, 2-bit fires;
men old enough to love the grave.
These things, and others, in context
show life swinging on a rotten axis.
But they've left us a bit of music
and a spiked show in the corner,
a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie,
a small volume of poems by Rimbaud,
a horse running as if the devil were
twisting his tail
over bluegrass and screaming, and then,
love again
like a streetcar turning the corner
on time,
the city waiting,
the wine and the flowers,
the water walking across the lake
and summer and winter and summer and summer
and winter again.
no. 6
I'll settle for the no. 6 horse
on a rainy afternoon
a paper cup of coffee
in my hand
a little way to go,
the wind twirling out
small wrens from
the upper grandstand roof,
the jocks coming out
for a middle race
silent
and the easy rain making
everything
at once
almost alike,
the horses at peace with
each other
before the drunken war
and I am under the grandstand
feeling for
cigarettes
settling for coffee,
then the horses walk by
taking their little men
away---
it is funereal and graceful
and glad
like the opening
of flowers.
for Jane
225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.
when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.
what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.
ice for the eagles
I keep remembering the horses
under the moon
I keep remembering feeding the horses
sugar
white oblongs of sugar
more like ice,
and they had heads like
eagles
bald heads that could bite and
did not.
The horses were more real than
my father
more real than God
and they could have stepped on my
feet but they didn't
they could have done all kinds of horrors
but they didn't.
I was almost 5
but I have not forgotten yet;
o my god they were strong and good
those red tongues slobbering
out of their souls.
Dinosauria, we
born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked
we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent
made inhuman
by this
the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder
we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground
the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the sea will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold
the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay
and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
born out of that.
the sun still hidden there
awaiting the next chapter.
the bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
my uncle Jack
my uncle Jack
is a mouse
is a house on fire
is a war about to begin
is a man running down the street with a knife in his back.
my uncle Jack
is the Santa Monica pier
is a dusty blue pillow
is a scratching black-and-white dog
is a man with one arm lighting a cigarette with one hand.
my uncle Jack
is a slice of burnt toast
is the place you forgot to look for the key
is the pleasure of finding 3 rolls of toilet paper in the closet
is the worst dream you've ever had that you can't remember.
my uncle Jack
is the firecracker that went off in your hand
is your run-over cat dead outside your driveway at 10:30 a.m.
is the crap game you won in the Santa Anita parking lot
is the man your woman left you for that night in the cheap hotel room.
my uncle Jack
is your uncle Jack
is death coming like a freight train
is a clown with weeping eyes
is your car jack and your fingernails and the scream of the biggest mountain now.
war
war, war, war,
the yellow monster,
the eater of mind
and body.
war,
the indescribable,
the pleasure of the mad,
the final argument
of
ungrown men.
does it belong?
do we?
as we approach
the last flash of
our chance.
one flower left.
one second.
breathing like this.
if we take what we can see---
the engines driving us mad,
lovers finally hating;
this fish in the market
staring upward into our minds;
flowers rotting, flies web-caught;
riots, roars of caged lions,
clowns in love with dollar bills,
nations moving people like pawns;
daylight thieves with beautiful
nighttime wives and wines;
the crowded jails,
the commonplace unemployed,
dying grass, 2-bit fires;
men old enough to love the grave.
These things, and others, in context
show life swinging on a rotten axis.
But they've left us a bit of music
and a spiked show in the corner,
a jigger of scotch, a blue necktie,
a small volume of poems by Rimbaud,
a horse running as if the devil were
twisting his tail
over bluegrass and screaming, and then,
love again
like a streetcar turning the corner
on time,
the city waiting,
the wine and the flowers,
the water walking across the lake
and summer and winter and summer and summer
and winter again.
no. 6
I'll settle for the no. 6 horse
on a rainy afternoon
a paper cup of coffee
in my hand
a little way to go,
the wind twirling out
small wrens from
the upper grandstand roof,
the jocks coming out
for a middle race
silent
and the easy rain making
everything
at once
almost alike,
the horses at peace with
each other
before the drunken war
and I am under the grandstand
feeling for
cigarettes
settling for coffee,
then the horses walk by
taking their little men
away---
it is funereal and graceful
and glad
like the opening
of flowers.
for Jane
225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.
when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.
what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.
ice for the eagles
I keep remembering the horses
under the moon
I keep remembering feeding the horses
sugar
white oblongs of sugar
more like ice,
and they had heads like
eagles
bald heads that could bite and
did not.
The horses were more real than
my father
more real than God
and they could have stepped on my
feet but they didn't
they could have done all kinds of horrors
but they didn't.
I was almost 5
but I have not forgotten yet;
o my god they were strong and good
those red tongues slobbering
out of their souls.
Dinosauria, we
born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked
we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent
made inhuman
by this
the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder
we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground
the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the sea will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold
the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay
and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
born out of that.
the sun still hidden there
awaiting the next chapter.
the bluebird
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?
my uncle Jack
my uncle Jack
is a mouse
is a house on fire
is a war about to begin
is a man running down the street with a knife in his back.
my uncle Jack
is the Santa Monica pier
is a dusty blue pillow
is a scratching black-and-white dog
is a man with one arm lighting a cigarette with one hand.
my uncle Jack
is a slice of burnt toast
is the place you forgot to look for the key
is the pleasure of finding 3 rolls of toilet paper in the closet
is the worst dream you've ever had that you can't remember.
my uncle Jack
is the firecracker that went off in your hand
is your run-over cat dead outside your driveway at 10:30 a.m.
is the crap game you won in the Santa Anita parking lot
is the man your woman left you for that night in the cheap hotel room.
my uncle Jack
is your uncle Jack
is death coming like a freight train
is a clown with weeping eyes
is your car jack and your fingernails and the scream of the biggest mountain now.
war
war, war, war,
the yellow monster,
the eater of mind
and body.
war,
the indescribable,
the pleasure of the mad,
the final argument
of
ungrown men.
does it belong?
do we?
as we approach
the last flash of
our chance.
one flower left.
one second.
breathing like this.
CHARLES BUKOWSKI
Tag up and hold
Not much chance in
Amsterdam;
Cheese dislikes the
Flea;
The center fielder
Turns
Runs back
In his stupid
Uniform,
Times it all
Perfectly:
Ball and man
Arriving as
One
He
Gloves it
Precisely
In tune with the
Universe;
Not much chance in
East
Kansas City;
And
Have you noticed
How
Men stand
Side by side
In urinals,
Trained in the
Act,
Looking straight
Ahead;
The center fielder
Wings it
Into the
Cut-off
Man
Who eyes the
Runners;
The sun plunges
Down
As somewhere
An old
Woman
Opens a window
Looks at a
Geranium,
Goes for a cup of water;
Not much chance in
New York City
Or
In the look
Of the eye
Of
The man
Who sits in a
Chair
Across from
You
He is
Going
To ask you
Certain
Questions about
Certain
Things
Especially
About
What to
Do
Without
Much chance.
Confession
Waiting for death
Like a cat
That will jump on the
Bed
I am so very soory for
My wife
She will see this
Stiff
White
Body
Shake it once, then
Maybe
Again:
“Hank!”
Hank won’t
Answer.
It’s not my death that
Worries me, it’s my wife
Left with this
Pile of
Nothing.
I want to
Let her know
Though
That all the nights
Sleeping beside her
Even the useless
Arguments
Were things
Ever splendid
And the hard
Words
I ever feared to
Say
Can now be
Said:
I love
You.
The Area of Pause
You have to have it or the walls will close
In.
You have to give everything up, throw it
Away, everything away.
You have to look at what you look at
Or think what you think
Or do what you do
Or
Don’t do
Without considering personal
Advantage
Without accepting guidance.
People are worn away with
Striving,
They hide in common
Habits.
Their concerns are herd
Concerns.
Few have the ability to stare
At an old shoe for
Ten minutes
Or to think of odd things
Like who invented the
Doorknob?
They become unalive
Because they are unable to
Pause
Undo themselves
Unkink
Unsee
Unlearn
Roll clear.
Listen to their untrue
Laughter, then
Walk
Away.
Be kind by CHARLES BUKOWSKI
We are always asked
To understand the other person’s
Viewpoint
No matter how
Out-dated
Foolish or
Obnoxious.
One is asked
To view
Their total error
Their life-waste
With
Kindliness,
Especially if they are
Aged.
But age is the total of
Our doing.
They have aged
Badly
Because they have
Lived
Out of focus,
They have refused to
See.
Not their fault?
Whose fault?
Mine?
I am asked to hide
My viewpoint
From them
For fear of their
Fear.
Age is no crime
But the shame
Of a deliberately
Wasted
Life
Among so many
Deliberately
Wasted
Lives
Is.
Tag up and hold
Not much chance in
Amsterdam;
Cheese dislikes the
Flea;
The center fielder
Turns
Runs back
In his stupid
Uniform,
Times it all
Perfectly:
Ball and man
Arriving as
One
He
Gloves it
Precisely
In tune with the
Universe;
Not much chance in
East
Kansas City;
And
Have you noticed
How
Men stand
Side by side
In urinals,
Trained in the
Act,
Looking straight
Ahead;
The center fielder
Wings it
Into the
Cut-off
Man
Who eyes the
Runners;
The sun plunges
Down
As somewhere
An old
Woman
Opens a window
Looks at a
Geranium,
Goes for a cup of water;
Not much chance in
New York City
Or
In the look
Of the eye
Of
The man
Who sits in a
Chair
Across from
You
He is
Going
To ask you
Certain
Questions about
Certain
Things
Especially
About
What to
Do
Without
Much chance.
Confession
Waiting for death
Like a cat
That will jump on the
Bed
I am so very soory for
My wife
She will see this
Stiff
White
Body
Shake it once, then
Maybe
Again:
“Hank!”
Hank won’t
Answer.
It’s not my death that
Worries me, it’s my wife
Left with this
Pile of
Nothing.
I want to
Let her know
Though
That all the nights
Sleeping beside her
Even the useless
Arguments
Were things
Ever splendid
And the hard
Words
I ever feared to
Say
Can now be
Said:
I love
You.
The Area of Pause
You have to have it or the walls will close
In.
You have to give everything up, throw it
Away, everything away.
You have to look at what you look at
Or think what you think
Or do what you do
Or
Don’t do
Without considering personal
Advantage
Without accepting guidance.
People are worn away with
Striving,
They hide in common
Habits.
Their concerns are herd
Concerns.
Few have the ability to stare
At an old shoe for
Ten minutes
Or to think of odd things
Like who invented the
Doorknob?
They become unalive
Because they are unable to
Pause
Undo themselves
Unkink
Unsee
Unlearn
Roll clear.
Listen to their untrue
Laughter, then
Walk
Away.
Be kind by CHARLES BUKOWSKI
We are always asked
To understand the other person’s
Viewpoint
No matter how
Out-dated
Foolish or
Obnoxious.
One is asked
To view
Their total error
Their life-waste
With
Kindliness,
Especially if they are
Aged.
But age is the total of
Our doing.
They have aged
Badly
Because they have
Lived
Out of focus,
They have refused to
See.
Not their fault?
Whose fault?
Mine?
I am asked to hide
My viewpoint
From them
For fear of their
Fear.
Age is no crime
But the shame
Of a deliberately
Wasted
Life
Among so many
Deliberately
Wasted
Lives
Is.