Thursday, August 16, 2018

and every Saturday of their lives they took up all the rugs in their house waxed the hardwood floors and covered them with rugs again, or: Born 98 Years Ago Today


Charles Bukowski

a single dog
walking alone on a hot sidewalk of
appears to have the power
of ten thousand gods.
why is this?

Bukowski born 98 years ago today. The traditional Egoslavian Bukowski birthday post.


a 340 dollar horse and a 100 dollar whore

Charles Bukowski

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.






  1. Charles Bukowski
    me and Faulkner

    sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it, but
    most repeat the same theme over and over again, it's
    as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange
    and off and important to them, it's done by everybody
    because everybody is of a different stripe and form
    and each must work out what is before them
    over and over again because
    that is their personal tiny miracle
    their bit of luck
    like now as like before and before I have been slowly
    drinking this fine red wine and listening to symphony after
    symphony from this black radio to my left
    some symphonies remind me of certain cities and certain rooms,
    make me realize that certain people now long dead were able to
    transgress graveyards
    and traps and cages and bones and limbs
    people who broke through with joy and madness and with
    insurmountable force
    in tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles
    and even now after decades of listening I still am able to hear
    a new work never heard before that is totally
    bright, a fresh-blazing sun
    there are countless sub-stratas of rising surprise from the
    human firmament
    music has an expansive and endless flow of ungodly
    writers are confined to the limit of sight and feeling upon the
    page while musicians leap into unrestricted immensity
    right now it's just old Tchaikowsky moaning and groaning his
    way through symphony #5
    but it's just as good as when I first heard it
    I haven't heard one of my favorites, Eric Coates, for some time
    but I know that if I keep drinking the good red and listening
    that he will be along
    there are others, many others
    and so
    this is just another poem about drinking and listening to
    repeat, right?
    but look at Faulkner, he not only said the same thing over and
    over but he said the same
    so, please, let me boost these giants of our lives
    once more: the classical composers of our time and
    of times past
    it has kept the rope from my throat
    maybe it will loosen

  2. Well, you know I'M all good with this guy.