When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a

shotgun, that was style.

a symphony orchestra. there is a thunderstorm, they are playing a Wagner overture and the people leave their seats under the trees and run inside to the pavilion the women giggling, the men pretending calm, wet cigarettes being thrown away, Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian Rhapsody # 2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look, one man sits alone in the rain listening. the audience notices him. they turn and look. the orchestra goes about its business. the man sits in the night in the rain, listening. there is something wrong with him, isn't there? he came to hear the music.

gnore all possible concepts and possibilities – ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust – just make it, babe, make it: a house a car a belly full of beans pay your taxes fuck and if you can't fuck copulate. make money but don't work too hard – make somebody else pay to relax, and stay of the streets wipe your ass real good use a lot of toilet paper it's bad manners to let people know you shit or could smell like it if you weren't careful.

the best one can settle for
is an afternoon
with the rent paid, some food in the refrigerator,
and death something like
a bad painting by a bad painter
(that you finally buy because there's not
anything else
around).

queers do this
or is it that you're
afraid to die?
biceps, triceps, forceps,
what are you going to do
with muscles?
well, muscles please the the ladies
and keep the bullies
at bay—
so
what?
is it worth it?
is it worth the collected works
of Balzac?
or a 3 week vacation
in Spain?
or, is it another way of
suffering?
if you got paid to do it,
you'd hate it.
if a man got paid to make love,
he'd hate it.

still, one needs the
exercise—
this writing game:
only the brain and soul get
worked-out.
quit your bitching and
do it.
while other people are
sleeping
you're lifting a mountain
with rivers of poems
running off.

here I'm supposed to be a great poet
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon
here I am aware of death like a giant bull
charging at me
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon
here I'm aware of wars and men fighting in the ring
and I'm aware of good food and wine and good women
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon
I'm aware of a woman's love
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon,
I lean into the sunlight behind a yellow curtain
I wonder where the summer flies have gone
I remember the most bloody death of Hemingway and
I'm sleepy in the afternoon.

some day I won't be sleepy in the afternoon
some day I'll write a poem that will bring volcanoes
to the hills out there
but right now I'm sleepy in the afternoon
and somebody asks me, "Bukowski, what time is it?"
and I say, "3:16 and a half."
I feel very guilty, I feel obnoxious, useless,
demented, I feel
sleepy in the afternoon,
they are bombing the churches, o.k., that's o.k.,
the libraries are filled with thousands of books of knowledge,
great music sits inside the nearby radio
and I am sleepy in the afternoon,
I have this tomb within myself that says,
ah, let the others do it, let them win,
let me sleep,
the wisdom is in the dark
sweeping through the dark like brooms,
I'm going where the summer flies have gone,
try to catch me.

there was one

made a thousand dollars

one day

in a town larger than

El Paso

jumping taxies between

universities and ladies'

clubs.

hell, you can't blame him:

I've worked for $16 a week,

quit, and lived a month on

that.

his wife is suing for divorce

and wants $200 a week

alimony.

he has to stay famous and

keep

talking.

I see his work

everywhere.

at high noon

at a small college near the beach

sober

the sweat running down my arms

a spot of sweat on the table

I flatten it with my finger

blood money blood money

my god they must think I love this like the others

but it's for bread and beer and rent

blood money

I'm tense lousy feel bad

poor people I'm failing I'm failing

a woman gets ut

walks out

slams the door

a dirty poem

somebody told me not to read dirty poems

here

it's too late.

my eyes can't see some lines

I read it

out -

desperate trembling

lousy

they can't hear my voice

and I say,

I quit, that's it, I'm

finished.

and later in my room

there's scotch and beer:

the blood of a coward.

this then

will be my destiny_

scrabbling for pennies in dark tiny halls

reading poems I have long since become tired

of.

and I used to think

that men who drove busses

or cleaned out latrines

or murdered men in alleys were

fools.