Bukowski

Bukowski's Still At It

The curtains are waving and people walk through the afternoon
Here, and in Berlin, and in New York City, and in Mexico
I wait on life like a pregnancy, with the stethoscope to the gut
But all I hear now is the piano slamming its teeth through areas of my brain
Somebody in this neighborhood likes Gershwin, which is, too bad for me
And the woman sits behind me, sits there, sits there, and keeps lighting cigarettes
And now the nurses leave the hospital near here
And they wear dresses that are naked in the sun to cheer the dead and the dying and the doctors
Especially the doctors, but, it does not help me
If I could rip them with moans of delight it would neither add or take away anything
Now, now, a horn blows a tired summer like a gladiola given up and leaning against the house
And the bottles we have emptied would strangle the sensibilities of god himself
Now I look up and see my face in the mirror
If I could only kill the man who killed the man
More than coffee pots and cheruse have done me in
More than myself has done me in
Madness come like a mouse out of the cupboard and they hand me a photograph of the moon
So a woman behind me has a daughter who falls in love with men in beards and sandals and berets
Who smoke pipes, and carefully comb their hair, and play chess, and talk continually of the soul, and of art
"This is good enough you've got to love something,"
Now the landlord waters outside, dripping the plants with false rain
Gershwin is finished now it sounds like Greek
Ah, its also common and hard impossible, I do wish somebody would go blackberry while—
I do wish they would
But, no, I do suppose it will be the same
A beer, and then another beer, and then another beer
Maybe then a half pint of scotch, three cigars
Smoke smoke yes, smoke
Under the electric sun of night
Hidden here in these walls with this woman in her life while the police are taking the drunks of the streets
I do not know how much longer I can last but I keep thinking,
"Ow my god, the gladiola will straighten hard and full of color like an arrow pointing at the sun, Christ will shudder like marmalade, my cat will look like Gandhi once looked."
Everything, everything, even the tile in the men's room at the union station will be true
All those mirrors there, finally with faces in them
Roses, forests, no more policemen, no more me