Slouching Toward Nirvana
Charles Bukowski, John Martin
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in this place
there are the dead, the deadly and the dying.
there is the cross, the builders of the cross and the burners of the
the pattern of my life forms like a cheap shadow
on the wall before me.
what is left of it
now must crawl
to wherever it can crawl.
the strongest know that death is
and the happiest are those gifted with the
Uninitiated Cicada Never Interrupt a Writer at Work Oh My Meeting Them No Eulogies, Please Finality The Machinery of Loss Part Two Damsels of the Night Forewarned She Lost Weight Military Surplus A Difficult Woman Talk Where the Action is Real Academy Award? Beach Boys I’m No Good Friend of the Family Solving a Crime Before it Begins Note for My Wall The Wine that Roared 2:07 A.M. A Clean, Well-Lighted Place Do We Really
vie to attend her parties is now homeless. “I’m used to it now,” she writes, “it no longer bothers me.” it is a two-page letter. I read it, fold it up, put it in a drawer and don’t reply. I am as cold as the world. if it doesn’t bother her, it doesn’t bother me. I get on my exercise bike, begin pumping away while listening to Wagner. this is the way she’d like to remember me, I’m sure. friend of the family she told me: when I was a little girl I was taken
in this pukey dark and left us diddling with broken dreams. grandma told me to look them in the eye and to shoot from the hip but when I did they did. once more, I’ll bet you George Washington’s wooden teeth against the Katzenjammer Kids that you can’t tell a Tabanus from a Hemichordate! they’ve called off the dogs but have you seen the YoYo Man? the power is on but are the lines cut? is what’s good for the goose sometimes only good for the goose? meanwhile, Lincoln, your time is up
professional people like dentists doctors butchers lawyers fry cooks policemen actors trapeze artists waiters taxi drivers, airline pilots, insurance salesmen, bond bailsmen, auto mechanics and sundry others. we need our quiet time to do what we are supposed to do. it’s as simple and profound and necessary as that. and you’re absolutely right if you think I’m bitching about you about this. oh my very painful to write this of course but most poets are
please I don’t want anybody at my funeral saying: “he was really a good guy, after all—” some jackass making some stupid remarks about my worth or lack of same. rather than some jackass spouting off it would be nice if one of my x-ladies was there wearing too much makeup dressed in high heels and a tight green dress saying “he was really a great fuck, after all.” of course she won’t be there and it won’t happen because I never was.