Charles Bukowski — Bukowski

Bukowski's Still At It The curtains are waving and people walk through the afternoon Here, and in Berlin, and in New York City, and in Mexico I wait on life like a pregnancy, with the stethoscope to the gut But all I hear now is the piano slamming its teeth through areas of my brain Somebody in this neighborhood likes Gershwin, which is, too bad for me And the woman sits behind me, sits there, sits there, and keeps lighting cigarettes And now the nurses leave the hospital near here And they wear dresses that are naked in the sun to cheer the dead and the dying and the doctors Especially the doctors, but, it does not help me If I could rip them with moans of delight it would neither add or take away anything Now, now, a horn blows a tired summer like a gladiola given up and leaning against the house And the bottles we have emptied would strangle the sensibilities of god himself Now I look up and see my face in the mirror If I could only kill the man who killed the man More than coffee pots and cheruse have done me in More than myself has done me in Madness come like a mouse out of the cupboard and they hand me a photograph of the moon So a woman behind me has a daughter who falls in love with men in beards and sandals and berets Who smoke pipes, and carefully comb their hair, and play chess, and talk continually of the soul, and of art "This is good enough you've got to love something," Now the landlord waters outside, dripping the plants with false rain Gershwin is finished now it sounds like Greek Ah, its also common and hard impossible, I do wish somebody would go blackberry while— I do wish they would But, no, I do suppose it will be the same A beer, and then another beer, and then another beer Maybe then a half pint of scotch, three cigars Smoke smoke yes, smoke Under the electric sun of night Hidden here in these walls with this woman in her life while the police are taking the drunks of the streets I do not know how much longer I can last but I keep thinking, "Ow my god, the gladiola will straighten hard and full of color like an arrow pointing at the sun, Christ will shudder like marmalade, my cat will look like Gandhi once looked." Everything, everything, even the tile in the men's room at the union station will be true All those mirrors there, finally with faces in them Roses, forests, no more policemen, no more me