Bukowski born 94 years ago today. These poems and videos cribbed from last year's post which featured an episode of Thursday Night Pints and news and reviews of a new Thomas Pynchon novel. Thursday Night Pints has disbanded by death, retirement, and better job in California. I'm the only one left in DC. I've started the latest Pynchon three times and failed each time. While I will always concede at least 50.1% of the blame when I fail a novel, so badly do I read these days at times, in Pynchon's new novel's case I won't go beyond the 50.1% my fault.
Think of all that has happened in that Year of Clusterfuck Kabooms, think of all that's been forgotten. Ferguson Missouri will be forgot by this time next week. I still go barking off the porch, less than before but when I do just as heedless. I'm not saying Rand Paul will or won't win POTUS 16 because he took a stance against a militarized police and a justice system rigged to fuck African-Americans and, in doing so, pissed off the old white angry base of the party that needs nominate him; I am saying if he does win POTUS 16 remember Ferguson and Paul's statements as an early example of his willingness to make statements guaranteed to anger the GOP's old white angry base (which, if he can pull it off, he will need to do to have a puncher's chance of winning POTUS 16). He has a better chance of winning POTUS than he does winning the GOP nomination. I'm talking about the upcoming National POTUS League season, I'm talking PWA, POTUS Wrestling Association. I wasn't endorsing Rand Paul.
- And it just might work. Not that I think Rand Paul has the gumption to infuriate the GOP's angry white base - he does, after all, have to win the GOP nomination to compete in POTUS 16 final round.
- And I was slamming motherfucking Barack Obama.
- The elegant art of not giving a shit. I wish I had it.
- Peaceful protesting = terrorism.
- The trayvonning of Michael Brown.
- Ferguson: a reminder.
- Morphing suburbia into the Battle of Algiers?
- Linguists read menus.
- Conversations with the dead.
- Keep Vollmann weird.
- My reading. I've never read poetry better. I've finished Awns Yawn, happily (I loved My Cobra, really disliked Navels in Now). Will >>insert Can't Decide Novel<< before Avid, Whinging Doubter, but am modestly hopeful I will finish Corrupt Males' 25K+ pages before I die.
a 340 dollar horse and a 100 dollar whore
don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me
at the racetrack any day half drunk
betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,
but let me tell you, there are some women there
who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you
look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores
you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke
dealing out so much breast and ass and the way
it’s all hung together, you look and you look and
you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women
and then there is something else that wants to make you
tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven
across the back of the john; anyhow, the season
was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,
all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,
the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners
themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:
a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;
he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly
and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.
the driver broke him wide
took him out by the fence where he’d be alone
even if he had to travel four times as far,
and that’s the way he went it
all the way by the outer fence
traveling two miles in one
and he won like he was mad as hell
and he wasn’t even tired,
and the biggest blonde of all
all ass and breast, hardly anything else
went to the payoff window with me.
that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?
and I said
I’m a poet
and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.
you? you . . . a poet?
I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.
but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,
and all thanks to an ugly horse
who wrote this poem.