Charles Bukowski — Hustle

I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead River gut, girl river damn drown People going in and out of books and doors and graves People dressed in pink getting haircuts and tired and dogs and Vivaldi You missed a cat argument The grey was tired, mad, flipping tail And he monkeyed with the black one who didn't want to be bothered And then the black one chased the grey one, pawed it once The grey one said, "Yaaow!" Ran away, stopped, scratched its ear, flipped it astraw Popped in the air and ran off, defeated and planning As a white one, another one, ran along the other side of the fence chasing a grasshopper Somebody shot Mr. Kennedy The best way to explain the meaning of concourse is to forget all about it or any meaning it, all Is just something that grows or does not grow, lives a while, and dies a long time, life is weak The rope around a man's neck is stronger than the man because it does not suffer It does also not listen to Brahms, but Brahms can get to be a bore and even suffering when you are locked in a cage with sticks, almost forever I remember my old man rage because I did not sweat when I mowed his lawn twice over while the lucky guys played football or jacked off in the garage He threw a two by four at the back of one of my legs, the left one I have a blood vessel that juts out an inch there now and I picked up the log, threw it into his beautiful roses and limped around and finished the lawn not sweating and twenty-five years later I buried him He cost me a grand, he was stronger than I was I see the river now, I see the river now Grass fish limping through, milk blue She's taking off her stockings, she's beginning to cry She looks at me, she's crying, "My car needs two new front tires"