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-- Charles BUKOWSKI (http://www.forumihorizont.com/showthread.php3?threadid=3856)
Charles BUKOWSKI
I love this damned and drunk writer...
The finest of the breed
there’s nothing to
discuss
there’s nothing to
remember
there’s nothing to
forget
it’s sad
and
it’s not
sad
seems the
most sensible
thing
a person can
do
is
sit
with a drink in
hand
as the walls
wave
their goodbye
smiles
one comes through
it
all
with a certain
amount of
efficiency and
bravery
then
leaves
some accept
the possibility of
God
to help them
get
through
others
take it
staight on
and to these
I drink
tonight.
"The finest of the breed", by Charles Bukowski
From "You get so alone at times that it just makes sense (1984)."
I Meet The Famous Poet
this poet had long been famous
and after some decades of
obscurity I
got lucky
and this poet appeared
interested
and asked me to his
beach apartment.
he was homosexual and I was
straight, and worse, a
lush.
I came by, looked
about and
declaimed (as if I didn't
know), "hey, where the
fuck are the
babies?"
he just smiled and stroked
his mustache.
he had little lettuces and
delicate cheeses and
other dainties
in his refrigerator.
"where you keep you fucking
beer, man?" I
asked.
it didn't matter, I had
brought my own
bottles and I began upon
them.
he began to look
alarmed: "I've heard about
your brutality, please desist from
that!"
I flopped down on his
couch, belched: "ah, shit, baby, I'm
not gonna hurt ya! ha, ha,
ha!"
"you are a fine writer," he
said, "but as a person you are
utterly
despicable!"
"that's what I like about me
best, baby!" I
continued to pour them
down
at once
he seemed to vanish behind
some sliding wooden
doors.
"hey, baby, come on
out! I ain't gonna do no
bad! we can sit around and
talk that dumb literary
bullshit all night
long! I won't
brutalize you,
shit, I
promise!"
"I don't trust you,"
came the little
voice
well, there was nothing to
do
but slug it down, I was
too drunk to drive
home.
when I awakened in the
morning he was standing over
me
smiling.
"uh," I said,
"hi..."
"did you mean what you
said last night? he
asked.
"uh, what wuz
ut?"
"I slid the doors back and
stood there and you saw
me and you said that
I looked like I was riding the
prow of some great sea
ship... you said that
I looked like a
norseman! is
that true?"
"oh, yeah, yeah, you
did..."
he fixed me some hot tea
with toast
and I got that
down.
"well," I said, "good to
have met
you..."
"I'm sure," he
answered.
the door closed behind
me
and I found the elevator
down
and
after some wandering about the
beach front
I found my car, got
in, drove off
on what appeared to be
favorable terms
between the famous poet and
myself
but
it wasn't
so:
he started writing un-
beliable hateful stuff
about
me
and I
got my shots in at
him.
the whole matter
was just about
like
most other writers
meeting
and
anyhow
that part about
calling him a
Norseman
wasn't true at
all: I called him
a
Viking
and it also
isn't true
that without his
aid
I never would have
appeared in the
Penguin Collection of
Modern Poets
along with him
and who
was it?
yeah:
Lamantia.
"I Meet The Famous Poet ", by Charles Bukowski
From "You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense."
My buddy
for a 21-year-old boy in New Orleans I wasn’t worth
much : I had a dark small room that smelled of
piss and death
yet I just wanted to stay in there, and there were
two lovely girls down at the end of the hall who
kept knocking on my door and yelling. "Get up !
There are good things out here !"
"Go away," I told them, but that only goaded
them on, they left notes under my door and
scotch-taped flowers to the
doorknob.
I was on cheap wine and green beer and
dementia...
I got to know the old guy in the next
room, somehow I felt old like
him ; his feet and ankles were swollen and he couldn’t
lace his shoes.
Each day about one p.m. we went for a walk
together and it was a very slow
walk : each step was painful for
him.
As we came to the curbing I helped him
up and down
gripping him by an elbow
and the back of his
belt, we made it.
I liked him : he never questioned me about
what I was or wasn’t
doing.
He should have been my father, and I liked
best what he said over and
over : "Nothing is worth
it."
he was a
sage
those young girls should have
left him the
notes and the
flowers.
"My buddy", by Charles Bukowski
From "You get so alone at times that it just makes sense (1984)."
Paris
was just like not being there.
Celine was gone.
there was nobody there.
Paris was a bite of bluegrey air.
the women rushed by as if you would never
DARE to go to bed with
them.
there were no armies around.
everybody was rich.
there were no poor in view.
there were no old in view.
to sit in a table in a cafe
would get you careful stares from the other
patrons
who were certain that they were
more important than
you.
food was too expensive to eat.
a bottle of wine would cost you
your left hand.
Celine was gone.
the fat men smoked cigars and became
gloried puffs of smoke.
the thin men sat very straight and spoke
only to each other.
the waiters had big feet and were sure
that they were more important than
anything or
anybody.
Celine was gone.
and Picasso was dying.
Paris was absolutely nothing.
I did see a dog that looked like a
white wolf.
I don't remember leaving
Paris.
but I must have been
there.
it was somewhat like leaving
a fashion magazine in a
train station.
"Paris", by Charles Bukowski
From Betting on the muse, Black Sparrow Press, 1996
A MAN
By Charles Bukowski
**************************************************
**
George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable
T.V. His dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he
needed a shave, and ash from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his
undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning. Sometimes the burning ash
missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing it away.
There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered
the door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag.
-George, I left that son of a bitch, I couldn't stand that son of a
bitch anymore.
-Sit down.
George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey,
two thirds with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a
cigarette out of her purse and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled.
-I took his damn money too. I took his damn money and split while he
was at work. You don't know how I've suffered with that son of a bitch.
-Lemme have a smoke, said George. She handed it to him and as she
leaned near, George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her.
-You son of a bitch, she said, I missed you.
-I miss those good legs of yours, Connie. I've really missed those
good legs.
-You still like'em?
-I get hot just looking.
-I could never make it with a college guy, said Connie. They're too
soft, they're milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George, it was like
having a maid. He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew
right off the crapper. He was antisceptic, that's what he was.
-Drink up, you'll feel better.
-And he couldn't make love.
-You mean he couldn't get it up?
-Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to
make a woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all
that education, he was useless.
-I wish I had a college education.
-You don't need one. You have everything you need, George.
-I'm just a flunkey. All the shit jobs.
-I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a
woman happy.
-Yeh?
-Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two
or three times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like
me but all the time she was treating me like I was a whore. Like I was a big
bad whore stealing her son away from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a
mess! He claimed he loved me. And I'd say, "Look at my pussy, Walter!" And he
wouldn't look at my pussy. He said, "I don't want to look at that thing." That
thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid of my pussy, are you,
George?
-It's never bit me yet.
-But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't you George?
-I suppose I have.
-And you've licked it, sucked it?
-I suppose so.
-You know damn well, George, what you've done.
-How much money did you get?
-Six hundred dollars.
-I don't like people who rob other people, Connie.
-That's why you're a fucking dishwasher. You're honest. But he's such
an ass, George. And he can afford the money, and I've earned it... him and his
mother and his love, his mother-love, his clean little wash bowls and toilets
and disposal bags and breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little
hard-ons and his precious love-making. All for himself, you understand, all
for himself! You know what a woman wants, George.
-Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette.
George filled them up again.
-I missed your legs, Connie. I've really missed those legs. I like the
way you wear those high heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women don't
know what they're missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ass;
it puts rythm into the walk. It really turns me on!
-You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you talk like that. You are
one hell of a dishwasher.
-You know what I'd really like to do?
-What?
-I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ass, the thighs.
I'd like to make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying
I'd slam it into you pure love.
-I don't want that, George. You've never talked like that to me
before. You've always done right with me.
-Pull your dress up higher.
-What?
-Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs.
-You like my legs, don't you, George?
-Let the light shine on them!
Constance hiked her dress.
-God christ shit, said George.
-You like my legs?
-I love your legs! Then george reached across the bed and slapped
Constance hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth.
-what'd you do that for?
-You fucked Walter! You fucked Walter!
-So what the hell?
-So pull your dress up higher!
-No!
-Do what I say!
George slapped again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt.
-Just up to the panties! shouted George. I don't quite want to see the
panties!
-Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?
-You fucked Walter!
-George, I swear, you've gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of
here, George!
-Don't move or I'll kill you!
-You'd kill me?
-I swear it!
George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey, drank it, and sat
down next to Constance. He took the cigarette and held it against her wrist.
She screamed. He held it there, firmly, then pulled it away.
-I'm a man, baby, understand that?
-I know you're a man, George.
-Here, look at my muscles! -george sat up and flexed both of his
arms.- Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!
Constance felt one of the arms, then the other.
-Yes, you have a beautiful body, George.
-I'm a man. I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man.
-I know it, George.
-I'm not the milkshit you left.
-I know it.
-And I can sing, too. You ought to hear my voice.
Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang "Old man River." Then he
sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen." He sang "The St. Louis Blues." He
sang "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing. Then he sat
down next to Constance. He said:
-Connie, you have beautiful legs. He asked for another cigarette.
He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head down on Connie's legs,
against the stockings, in her lap, and he said:
-Connie, I guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you,
I'm sorry I burned you with that cigarette.
Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him,
soothing him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted
his head and placed it on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them
out on the bed. She stood up, walked to the fifth, poured a jolt of good
whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and drank it sown. She walked
to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She walked
through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one
o'clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of clouds was up
there. She got out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance
of The Blue Mirror. She walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and
drunk at the end of the bar. She walked up and sat down next to him.
-Missed me, baby?- she asked.
Walter looked up. He recognized her. He didn't answer. He looked at the
bartender and the bartender walked toward them. They all knew eachother.
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN TOWN
**********************************
Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass was the
most beautiful girl in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange body, a
snake-like and fiery body with eyes to go with it. Cass was fluid moving
fire. She was like a spirit stuck into a form that would not hold her. Her
hair was black and long and silken and whirled about as did her body. Her
spirit was either very high or very low. There was no in between for Cass.
Some said she was crazy. The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never
understand Cass. To the men she was simply a sex machine and they didn't
care whether she was crazy or not. And Cass danced and flirted, kissed the
men, but except for an instance or two, when it came time to make it with
Cass, Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men.
Her sisters accused her of misusing her beauty, of not using her mind
enough, but Cass had mind and spirit; she painted, she danced, she sang, she
made things of clay, and when people were hurt either in the spirit or the
flesh, Cass felt a deep grieving for them. Her mind was simply different;
her mind was simply not practical. Her sisters were jealous of her because
she attracted their men, and they were angry because they felt she didn't
make the best use of them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones;
the so-called handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zap. They
are riding on their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped nostrils...all
surface and no insides..." She had a temper that came close to insanity, she
had a temper that some call insanity. Her father had died of alchohol and
her mother had run off leaving the girls alone. The girls went to a relative
who placed them in a convent. The convent had been an unhappy place, more
for Cass than the sisters. The girls were jealous of Cass and Cass fought
most of them. She had razor marks all along her left arm from defending
herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar along the left cheek
but the scar rather than lessening her beauty only seemed to highlight it. I
met her at the West End Bar several nights after her release from the
convent. Being youngest, she was the last of the sisters to be released. She
simply came in and sat next to me. I was probably the ugliest man in town
and this might have had something to do with it.
"Drink?" I asked.
"Sure, why not?"
I don't suppose there was anything unusual in our conversation that
night, it was simply in the feeling Cass gave. She had chosen me and it was
as simple as that. No pressure. She liked her drinks and had a great number
of them. She didn't seem quite of age but they served he anyhow. Perhaps she
had forged i.d., I don't know. Anyhow, each time she came back from the
restroom and sat down next to me, I did feel some pride. She was not only
the most beautiful woman in town but also one of the most beautiful I had
ever seen. I placed my arm about her waist and kissed her once.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked.
"Yes, of course, but there's something else... there's more than your
looks..."
"People are always accusing me of being pretty. Do you really think I'm
pretty?"
"Pretty isn't the word, it hardly does you fair."
Cass reached into her handbag. I thought she was reaching for her
handkerchief. She came out with a long hatpin. Before I could stop her she
had run this long hatpin through her nose, sideways, just above the
nostrils. I felt disgust and horror. She looked at me and laughed, "Now do
you think me pretty? What do you think now, man?" I pulled the hatpin out
and held my handkerchief over the bleeding. Several people, including the
bartender, had seen the act. The bartender came down:
"Look," he said to Cass, "you act up again and you're out. We don't
need your dramatics here."
"Oh, fuck you, man!" she said.
"Better keep her straight," the bartender said to me.
"She'll be all right," I said.
"It's my nose, I can do what I want with my nose."
"No," I said, "it hurts me."
"You mean it hurts you when I stick a pin in my nose?"
"Yes, it does, I mean it."
"All right, I won't do it again. Cheer up."
She kissed me, rather grinning through the kiss and holding the
handkerchief to her nose. We left for my place at closing time. I had some
beer and we sat there talking. It was then that I got the perception of her
as a person full of kindness and caring. She gave herself away without
knowing it. At the same time she would leap back into areas of wildness and
incoherence. Schitzi. A beautiful and spiritual schitzi. Perhaps some man,
something, would ruin her forever. I hoped that it wouldn't be me. We went
to bed and after I turned out the lights Cass asked me,
"When do you want it? Now or in the morning?"
"In the morning," I said and turned my back.
In the morning I got up and made a couple of coffees, brought her one
in bed. She laughed.
"You're the first man who has turned it down at night."
"It's o.k.," I said, "we needn't do it at all."
"No, wait, I want to now. Let me freshen up a bit."
Cass went into the bathroom. She came out shortly, looking quite
wonderful, her long black hair glistening, her eyes and lips glistening, her
glistening... She displayed her body calmly, as a good thing. She got under
the sheet.
"Come on, lover man."
I got in. She kissed with abandon but without haste. I let my hands run
over her body, through her hair. I mounted. It was hot, and tight. I began
to stroke slowly, wanting to make it last. Her eyes looked directly into
mine.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"What the hell difference does it make?" she asked.
I laughed and went on ahead. Afterwards she dressed and I drove her
back to the bar but she was difficult to forget. I wasn't working and I
slept until 2 p.m. then got up and read the paper. I was in the bathtub when
she came in with a large leaf- an elephant ear.
"I knew you'd be in the bathtub," she said, "so I brought you something
to cover that thing with, nature boy."
She threw the elepahant leaf down on me in the bathtub.
"How did you know I'd be in the tub?"
"I knew."
Almost every day Cass arrived when I was in the tub. The times were
different but she seldom missed, and there was the elephant leaf. And then
we'd make love. One or two nights she phoned and I had to bail her out of
jail for drunkenness and fighting.
"These sons of bitches," she said, "just because they buy you a few
drinks they think they can get into your pants."
"Once you accept a drink you create your own trouble."
"I thought they were interested in me, not just my body."
"I'm interested in you and your body. I doubt, though, that most men
can see beyond your body."
I left town for 6 months, bummed around, came back. I had never
forgotten Cass, but we'd had some type of arguement and I felt like moving
anyhow, and when I got back i figured she'd be gone, but I had been sitting
in the West End Bar about 30 minutes when she walked in and sat down next to
me.
"Well, bastard, I see you've come back."
I ordered her a drink. Then I looked at her. She had on a high- necked
dress. I had never seen her in one of those. And under each eye, driven in,
were 2 pins with glass heads. All you could see were the heads of the pins,
but the oins were driven down into her face.
"God damn you, still trying to destroy your beauty, eh?"
"No, it's the fad, you fool."
"You're crazy."
"I've missed you," she said.
"Is there anybody else?"
"No there isn't anybody else. Just you. But I'm hustling. It costs ten
bucks. But you get it free."
"Pull those pins out."
"No, it's the fad."
"It's making me very unhappy."
"Are you sure?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure."
Cass slowly pulled the pins out and put them back in her purse.
"Why do you haggle your beauty?" I asked. "Why don't you just live with
it?"
"Because people think it's all I have. Beauty is nothing, beauty won't
stay. You don't know how lucky you are to be ugly, because if people like
you you know it's for something else."
"O.k.," I said, "I'm lucky."
"I don't mean you're ugly. People just think you're ugly. You have a
fascinating face."
"Thanks."
We had another drink.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Nothing. I can't get on to anything. No interest."
"Me neither. If you were a woman you could hustle."
"I don't think I could ever make contact with that many strangers, it's
wearing."
"You're right, it's wearing, everything is wearing."
We left together. People still stared at Cass on the streets. She was a
beautiful woman, perhaps more beautiful than ever. We made it to my place
and I opened a bottle of wine and we talked. With Cass and I, it always came
easy. She talked a while and I would listen and then i would talk. Our
conversation simply went along without strain. We seemed to discover secrets
together. When we discovered a good one Cass would laugh that laugh- only
the way she could. It was like joy out of fire. Through the talking we
kissed and moved closer together. We became quite heated and decided to go
to bed. It was then that Cass took off her high -necked dress and I saw it-
the ugly jagged scar across her throat. It was large and thick.
"God damn you, woman," I said from the bed, "god damn you, what have
you done?
"I tried it with a broken bottle one night. Don't you like me any more?
Am I still beautiful?"
I pulled her down on the bed and kissed her. She pushed away and
laughed, "Some men pay me ten and I undress and they don't want to do it. I
keep the ten. It's very funny."
"Yes," I said, "I can't stop laughing... Cass, bitch, I love you...stop
destroying yourself; you're the most alive woman I've ever met."
We kissed again. Cass was crying without sound. I could feel the tears.
The long black hair lay beside me like a flag of death. We enjoined and made
slow and sombre and wonderful love. In the morning Cass was up making
breakfast. She seemed quite calm and happy. She was singing. I stayed in bed
and enjoyed her happiness. Finally she came over and shook me,
"Up, bastard! Throw some cold water on your face and pecker and come
enjoy the feast!"
I drove her to the beach that day. It was a weekday and not yet summer
so things were splendidly deserted. Beach bums in rags slept on the lawns
above the sand. Others sat on stone benches sharing a lone bottle. The gulls
whirled about, mindless yet distracted. Old ladies in their 70's and 80's
sat on the benches and discussed selling real estate left behind by husbands
long ago killed by the pace and stupidity of survival. For it all, there was
peace in the air and we walked about and stratched on the lawns and didn't
say much. It simply felt good being together. I bought a couple of
sandwiches, some chips and drinks and we sat on the sand eating. Then I held
Cass and we slept together about an hour. It was somehow better than
lovemaking. There was flowing together without tension. When we awakened we
drove back to my place and I cooked a dinner. After dinner I suggested to
Cass that we shack together. She waited a long time, looking at me, then she slowly said, "No." I drove her back to the bar, bought her a drink and walked out. I found a job as a parker in a factory the next day and the rest
of the week went to working. I was too tired to get about much but that
Friday night I did get to the West End Bar. I sat and waited for Cass. Hours
went by . After I was fairly drunk the bartender said to me, "I'm sorry
about your girlfriend."
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, didn't you know?"
"No."
"Suicide. She was buried yesterday."
"Buried?" I asked. It seemed as though she would walk through the
doorway at any moment. How could she be gone?
"Her sisters buried her."
"A suicide? Mind telling me how?"
"She cut her throat."
"I see. Give me another drink."
I drank until closing time. Cass was the most beautiful of 5 sisters,
the most beautiful in town. I managed to drive to my place and I kept
thinking, I should have insisted she stay with me instead of accepting that
"no."Everything about her had indicated that she had cared. I simply had
been too offhand about it, lazy, too unconcerned. I deserved my death and hers. I was a dog. No, why blame the dogs? I got up and found a bottle of wine and drank from it heavily. Cass the most beautiful girl in town was dead at 20. Outside somebody honked their automobile horn. They were very loud and persistent. I sat the bottle down and screamed out: "GOD DAMN YOU,YOU SON OF A BITCH ,SHUT UP!" The night kept coming and there was
nothing I could do.
Charles Bukowski playing piano...
I didn't read all the postings above but....have you read " Femrat " of your drunk writer ?
oh these poetries are wonderful, and the story -the most beautiful woman in town .god!
i had never read anything by Bukowski,
darke why do you like him?
Aljohin,What about Femrat? have you read it? can you post it please,if it is possible?
Sorry lorie I only have heared about...
Citim:
Po citoj ato që tha lorie
darke why do you like him?
Photographs of Charles Bukowski
...
2
3
4
5
6
...
Slavery was never abolished, it was only extended to include all the colors
I've felt slave lot of times, now I read this letter from Bukowski to scape from my routines and I find some answers. It could sounds kinda exagerated, and this is Bukowski way of make literature, talking about daily matters, rudely, clear, saying what everybody try to hide and always laughing, laughing of himself, of the society, of the people, of everybody and it's so true what he says...
If I would say someone I'm slave it could sound crazy, cause I'm not hungry and nobody hurts me with a whip. But as I have been growing I have had to do things against my will, now i have to do them and in a higher scale, and I do them conciously in order to get that precious liberty in the future. I'm getting inserted in the system of the society, just I wonder if it's to get that liberty or to turn into more slave?
----------------------------------------------------------------
Letter to his publisher, John Martin (of Black Sparrow Press)
8-12-86
Hello John:
Thanks for the good letter. I don't think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from. You know the places where I came from. Even the people who try to write about that or make films about it, they don't get it right. They call it "9 to 5." It's never 9 to 5, there's no free lunch break at those places, in fact, at many of them in order to keep your job you don't take lunch. Then there's OVERTIME and the books never seem to get the overtime right and if you complain about that, there's another sucker to take your place.
You know my old saying, "Slavery was never abolished, it was only extended to include all the colors."
And what hurts is the steadily diminishing humanity of those fighting to hold jobs they don't want but fear the alternative worse. People simply empty out. They are bodies with fearful and obedient minds. The color leaves the eye. The voice becomes ugly. And the body. The hair. The fingernails. The shoes. Everything does.
As a young man I could not believe that people could give their lives over to those conditions. As an old man, I still can't believe it. What do they do it for? Sex? TV? An automobile on monthly payments? Or children? Children who are just going to do the same things that they did?
Early on, when I was quite young and going from job to job I was foolish enough to sometimes speak to my fellow workers: "Hey, the boss can come in here at any moment and lay all of us off, just like that, don't you realize that?"
They would just look at me. I was posing something that they didn't want to enter their minds.
Now in industry, there are vast layoffs (steel mills dead, technical changes in other factors of the work place). They are layed off by the hundreds of thousands and their faces are stunned:
"I put in 35 years . . . "
"It ain't right . . . "
"I don't know what to do . . . "
They never pay the slaves enough so they can get free, just enough so they can stay alive and come back to work. I could see all this. Why couldn't they? I figured the park bench was just as good or being a barfly was just as good. Why not get there first before they put me there? Why wait?
I just wrote in disgust against it all, it was a relief to get the shit out of my system. And now that I'm here, a so-called professional writer, after giving the first 50 years away, I've found out that there are other disgusts beyond the system. . .
I remember once, working as a packer in this lighting fixture company, one of the packers suddenly said: "I'll never be free!"
One of the bosses was walking by (his name was Morrie) and he let out this delicious cackle of a laugh, enjoying the fact that this fellow was trapped for life.
So, the luck I finally had in getting out of those places, no matter how long it took, has given me a kind of joy, the jolly joy of the miracle. I now write from an old mind and an old body, long beyond the time when most men would ever think of continuing such a thing, but since I started so late I owe it to myself to continue, and when the words begin to falter and I must be helped up stairways and I can no longer tell a bluebird from a paperclip, I still feel that something in me is going to remember (no matter how far I'm gone) how I've come through the murder and the mess and the moil, to at least a generous way to die.
To not to have entirely wasted one's life seems to be a worthy accomplishment, if only for myself.
yr boy,
Hank
U çmenda komplet mbas gjithe kesaj qe pashe per Charles Bukowski...
Wonderful
Why You Should Never Date Boys Who Like Charles Bukowski
by Miriam Parker
My name is Miriam and I have a Charles Bukowski problem. Not an addiction to the author, more an unstoppable inclination toward falling for boys who are Bukowski enthusiasts. And there’s no worse quality in a boyfriend than liking Charles Bukowski.
A writing teacher told one of my classes once that if we ever needed to describe a character really quickly, and that character was the kind of guy who was afraid of commitment and regularly used non life-threatening drugs, we should write a set of Charles Bukowski books onto his bookshelf. Everyone laughed, but I knew that she was telling the truth.
It’s a shortcut, sure, but this describes almost every guy I have ever dated. It all started with a guy I’ll call Dick. Dick was my college boyfriend. He'd never been to college, so it might be more accurate to say that Dick was my boyfriend for about six months while I was in college. He was smart, though, and in between Bukowski books he read Dosotovesky and Kafka.
When I started dating Dick, I didn’t know anything about Charles Bukowski. At the time I was happy his favorite author was not Phillip Roth. At the time I had a rule that one should not date boys who like Phillip Roth because they’ll always love their mother more than they love you.
When Dick told me the main conversation he had with his mother when he went to her house was her saying, “Dick, roll me a joint” and his response was always, “what happened to the ten I rolled you last weekend?” I was intriqued. When he told me his favorite author was a guy named Bukowski, I was interested.
But I was young and naïve. I had never heard of this Bukowski and figured he was just another writer like the ones I enjoyed, like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Jane Austen. Aside from the aforementioned Philip Roth, I hadn’t really come across any controversial literary authors. Although I’d read my share of steamy romance novels as a frustrated teenager, I could never have imagined the contents of a Bukowski book.
When Dick gave me a copy of Post Office, I opened it, looked at the first page and read “What I mean by big was that her ass was big and her tits were big and that she was big in all the right places. She seemed a bit crazy, but I kept looking at her body and I didn’t care.” I closed the book and said I hated Charles Bukowski. “I hate Charles Bukowski,” I declared. As you can imagine, the problems in my relationship with Dick where there from the very beginning. In all his actions and even in his words, Dick imitated Bukowski. He didn’t have much experience with women, so I think that he may have thought the way Bukowski's characters interacted was the way of all couples.
As a result, many of our conversations centered around the size and attractiveness of my ass and the percentage of my body weight that it took up. He estimated about fifty percent. The rest of our conversations revolved around how good we looked together, and while this sounds like it might be a fun conversation to have, and it is at the beginning, I became so worried about us not looking good together that I turned into a very meek, very thin, very mousy person looking to Dick and only Dick for approval. Not that healthy.
It was a dificult relationship to get out of. In the end, I dreamt up a scenario in which I was still in love with my high school boyfriend, the one on whom the Phillip Roth rule was based, and as a result I was forced to break up with Dick.
For various reasons, some related to circumstance and some related to personal trauma, I didn’t have sex for almost two years after the Dick debacle. This gave me a lot of time to think up theories. One of them was: You Should Never Date Boys Who Like Charles Bukowski. It was a good theory. My experiences with Dick, extrapolated to all humanity, showed clearly that boys who like Charles Bukowski are only interested in women only for their looks, will always cheat on them without remorse and will never listen to what they say. Result: these boys make bad boyfriends.
Having instituted the rule, when I could no longer withstand my extended celibacy I began dating again. But I had learned my lesson, so I interrogated my potential lovers about what they liked to read. Among their responses:
From a cute banker type I met at a party: “I don’t read, I’m like, illiterate.” We didn’t even make it to the first date.
During my phase of going out with ugly guys because I thought they would be nicer to me than attractive guys, one of the chubbier ones said, “I like to read trash.”
I responded, “Oh, really, what kind?” I’m always up for trash.
He named the popular author of formulaic crime novels on whose website I happen to work and for whom I have a particular dislike. After I teased this date mercilessly about his interest in the worst writer around, I let him pay the check and then didn’t return his calls.
A date recently told me, after I told him I enjoyed Ann Patchett’s book Bel Canto, that he thinks all contemporary literature is crap. He then proceeded to name every author read in a college “History of Literature” survey course as his favorite. When I said, “Yeah, I thought Ulysses was pretty good, although the chapter that’s written as a play was a little bit hard to get through,” he stopped talking pretty quickly. He didn’t call me again. Despite the fact that he didn’t mention Bukowski in his list, I was pretty sure that he would like Bukowski if he deigned to read anything written after 1875.
After various false starts, last year, I managed to be involved for a few months with a guy, I’ll call him Frank, who I actually liked. We actually had very similar taste in books. Frank suggested that I read Tama Janowitz, who I enjoyed. I suggested that he read Augusten Burroughs, who he found hilarious. Come to think of it, he still has my copy of Dry. We both liked David Sedaris. And then he revealed that in addition to our shared tastes, he also liked Bukowski. I thought about my rule, now almost seven years old. What should I do? Can I break up with someone with whom I have so much in common just because I have a rule?
As a stalling tactic, I read Post Office. I liked it. I liked Henry Chinaski. While he was a bit vile, as I expected, in relation to women, he was an engaging character. And, as many men had told me but that I had never believed: Bukowski is a pretty good writer. I understood why the women in the books fell for the Hank Chinaski character. He was suave, sweet and he was good at not really listening to what women said to the point that they didn’t even really notice.
And then I realized that, if I had met him in the 50’s, I would have fallen for Charles Bukowski. I can picture the phone call I would have had with my friend Marge now:
“I met a nice guy,” I would have said.
“That’s great,” she would respond. “What does he do?”
“He works in the Post Office.”
“Oh,” she would say, disappointed.
“But he’s really a novelist,” I would have said.
Her voice would brighten.
“Oh?”
“But he’s got a little bit of a drinking problem.”
Sad again, she would respond, “Really? That’s too bad.”
Unflappable, I would say, “But I think I can change him. He’s just unhappy. He’ll be so much happier when we’re together.”
This is just a fantasy.
For various reasons I’m still not entirely clear on, they had something to do with sex and something else regarding a model, Frank broke up with me just as I was deciding I might be able to break my rule about boys who like Bukowski. In the future, I think I’ll stick to my guns.
But I don’t think it’s all as cut and dry as I make it out to be. The engaging thing about Charles Bukowski is that below his bluster, he was a really sweet guy. He really loved the women he was with. He really meant the things he said about their asses and their tits, and he meant them as true compliments. I think that the guys I’ve dated interpret Bukowski literally, but there’s so much more to the writing. There's so much more than just tits and asses. There’s pain and love and sorrow and a little glimmer of hope that things might be better tomorrow. I have become a girl who likes Charles Bukowski. What are the rules about that?
aforismi di ch.bukowski
"La gente è il più grande spettacolo del mondo.E non si paga il biglietto."
"Vuoi sentirti sicuro? La sicurezza si può avere in galera. Tre metri quadrati tutti per te senza affitto da pagare, senza conti della luce e del telefono, senza tasse, senza alimenti. Senza multe. Senza fermi per guida in stato di ubriachezza. Cure mediche gratuite. La compagnia di persone con gli stessi interessi. Chiesa. Inculate. Funerali gratuiti."
"Ospedali e galere e puttane: sono queste le universit_ della vita. Io ho preso parecchie lauree. Chiamatemi dottore."
"Le feci tener su le scarpe coi tacchi alti. Sono un freak. Il corpo al naturale non lo reggo, ho bisogno di farmi ingannare. Gli psichiatri hanno un termine specifico per questo, ed io ho un termine specifico per gli psichiatri."
"Lo stile è uno strumento utile per dire quello che hai da dire, ma quando non hai più niente da dire lo stile è un cazzo moscio di fronte alla mirabilissima fica dell'universo."
"Gente che va su e giù per le scale mobili, negli ascensori, che guida automobili, le porte dei garage che si aprono schiacciando un pulsante. Poi vanno in palestra per smaltire il grasso."
"Gioventù, brutta stronza, dove sei finita?"
"Mi seccherebbe essere arrestato per droga solo perchè ho un po' d'erba addosso, sarebbe come essere arrestato per violenza carnale perchè sto annusando delle mutandine stese al sole ad asciugare." 
"Per me scopare è come farmi la barba, so che ogni tanto mi tocca, ma preferisco lasciar perdere."
qst è una pancia da alkolista, ma fossero così tutti gli alkolisti
"Quando sono ubriaco la mia ispirazione è al massimo,questo significa essere un gran figlio di puttana."
"Ecco il problema di chi beve, pensai versandomi da bere. Se succede qualcosa di brutto si beve per dimenticare; se succede qualcosa di bello si beve per festeggiare; e se non succede niente si beve per far succedere qualcosa"
"Presi la bottiglia ed andai in camera mia. Mi spogliai tenni le mutande ed andai a letto: era un gran casino. La gente si aggrappava ciecamente a tutto quello che trovava: comunismo, macrobiotica, zen, surf, ballo, ipnotismo, terapie di gruppo, orge, ciclismo, erbe aromatiche, cattolicesimo, sollevamento pesi, viaggi, solitudine, dieta vegetariana, India, pittura, scultura, composizione, direzione d'orchestra, campeggio, yoga, copula, gioco d'azzardo, alcool, ozio, gelato allo yoghurt, Beethoven, Bach, Budda, Cristo, meditazione trascendentale, succo di carota, suicidio, vestiti fatti a mano, viaggi aerei, New York City, e poi tutte queste cose sfumavano e non restava niente. La gente doveva trovare qualcosa da fare mentre aspettava di morire. era bello avere una scelta: Io l'avevo fatta da un pezzo la mia scelta. Alzai la bottiglia di vodka e la bevvi liscia. I russi sapevano il fatti loro"
where to put it
don't blame me if your cars breaks down on the freeway.
don't blame me if your wife runs away.
don't blame me if you went to war and discovered that people kill.
don't blame me that you murdered 4 years by voting for the wrong man.
don't blame me that sex sometimes fails.
don't blame me if I don't answer the telephone and can't watch tv.
don't blame me for your father.
don't blame me for the corner church.
don't blame me for the hydrogen bomb.
blame me if you are reading this.
don't blame me if you don't understand it.
don't blame me that the world crawls with killers.
don't blame me if you're one of them.
blame your father.
blame the corner church.
don;t blame me for Christmas or the 4th of July.
blame anybody else you fucking want to but don't blame me.
don't blame me for the homeless.
don't blame me for the 162 baseball games every year.
don't blame me for the basketball.
don't blame me for not wanting to get in crowded elevators.
don't blame me for not having a hero.
don't blame me for not creating one.
don't blame me for being confused by the laughet of the masses.
don't blame me for laughing alone.
don't blame me for the caging of the tiger.
blame me that my death will not be fearful,
but don't blame yourself.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRc6mHS9PjE
(I hate the fact that I can't post videos in here :o)
Dinosauria, we
06/10/2004
born like this
into this
as the chalk faces smile
as Mrs. Death laughs
as the elevators break
as political landscapes dissolve
as the supermarket bag boy holds a college degree
as the oily fish spit out their oily prey
as the sun is masked
we are
born like this
into this
into these carefully mad wars
into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness
into bars where people no longer speak to each other
into fist fights that end as shootings and knifings
born into this
into hospitals which are so expensive that it's cheaper to die
into lawyers who charge so much it's cheaper to plead guilty
into a country where the jails are full and the madhouses closed
into a place where the masses elevate fools into rich heroes
born into this
walking and living through this
dying because of this
muted because of this
castrated
debauched
disinherited
because of this
fooled by this
used by this
pissed on by this
made crazy and sick by this
made violent
made inhuman
by this
the heart is blackened
the fingers reach for the throat
the gun
the knife
the bomb
the fingers reach toward an unresponsive god
the fingers reach for the bottle
the pill
the powder
we are born into this sorrowful deadliness
we are born into a government 60 years in debt
that soon will be unable to even pay the interest on that debt
and the banks will burn
money will be useless
there will be open and unpunished murder in the streets
it will be guns and roving mobs
land will be useless
food will become a diminishing return
nuclear power will be taken over by the many
explosions will continually shake the earth
radiated robot men will stalk each other
the rich and the chosen will watch from space platforms
Dante's Inferno will be made to look like a children's playground
the sun will not be seen and it will always be night
trees will die
all vegetation will die
radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men
the sea will be poisoned
the lakes and rivers will vanish
rain will be the new gold
the rotting bodies of men and animals will stink in the dark wind
the last few survivors will be overtaken by new and hideous diseases
and the space platforms will be destroyed by attrition
the petering out of supplies
the natural effect of general decay
and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard
born out of that
the sun still hidden there
awaiting the next chapter
-Charles Bukowski, from The Last Night of the Earth Poems, 1992
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQQK3_avob0
(Bukowski reads his poems in these videos).
The Genius Of The Crowd
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
Bukowski: Poetry and Motion
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r1e5Jeh2Fk0
He's crazy, he compares poetry to the satisfaction one gets after they're done with a "good hot beersh!t". He's says it's glorious.
''With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough'' - Charles Bukowski
I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.
Alone with Everybody - Charles Bukowski
The flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
how you been my brother ingm?!
does that mean you're drinking and smoking based on what you reading!:p
Citim:
Po citoj ato që tha kurti
how you been my brother ingm?!
does that mean you're drinking and smoking based on what you reading!:p
THE ALIENS
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there
and I am
here.
...and i am here too Ingm...
Citim:
Po citoj ato që tha Agent Provocateur
...and i am here too Ingm...
SHE SAID
what are you doing with all those paper
napkins in your car?
we dont have napkins like
that
how come your car radio is
always turned to some
rock and roll station?do you drive around with
some
young thing?
you're
dripping tangerine
juice on the floor.
whenever you go into
the kitchen
this towel gets
wet and dirty,
why is that?
when you let my
bathwater run
you never
clean the
tub first.
why don't you
put your toothbrush
back
in the rack?
you should always
dry your razor
sometimes
I think
you hate
my cat.
Martha says
you were
downstairs
sitting with her
and you
had your
pants off.
you shouldn't wear
those
$100 shoes in
the garden
and you don't keep
track
of what you
plant out there
that's
dumb
you must always
set the cat's bowl back
in
the same place.
don't
bake fish
in a frying
pan...
I never saw
anybody
harder on the
brakes of their
car
than you.
let's go
to a
movie.
listen what's
wrong with you?
you act
depressed.
Besieged
you see, this wall is green and that wall is
blue and the 3rd wall has eyes and
the last wall is crawling with angry famished
spiders.
no, that wall is a sheet of frozen water
and the other is one of melting was
and the 3rd frames my grandmother's face
and the 4th spills the bones of my father
outside is the city, the city outside, a thing that
creeps to the call of bells and lights,
the city is an open grave,
so I never dare to venture forth but
rather remain and hide within
disconnect the phone
lower the shades and
cut the
lights.
the city is more cruel than the walls
and finally the walls are all we have
and
almost nothing is
far better than nothing at all.
Re: Besieged
Citim:
Po citoj ato që tha ingmetalboy
you see, this wall is green and that wall is
blue and the 3rd wall has eyes and
the last wall is crawling with angry famished
spiders.
no, that wall is a sheet of frozen water
and the other is one of melting was
and the 3rd frames my grandmother's face
and the 4th spills the bones of my father
outside is the city, the city outside, a thing that
creeps to the call of bells and lights,
the city is an open grave,
so I never dare to venture forth but
rather remain and hide within
disconnect the phone
lower the shades and
cut the
lights.
the city is more cruel than the walls
and finally the walls are all we have
and
almost nothing is
far better than nothing at all.
Me pelqen si e ke perkthyer. Nuk tingellon dhe aq e huaj edhe ne shqip. Ishin dy fjale qe do te vecoja per ti rimenduar.
kur Bukowski shkruan:
"outside is the city, the city outside, a thing that
CREEPS to the call of bells and lights,"
ju e keni perkthyer:
"Përjasha është qyteti, qyteti përjashta, dicka
që ZVARRITET pas thirrjes së sirenave dhe sinjaleve"
creeps - ketu shpreh me shume se zvarritje, shpreh nje lloj negativizmi dhe neverie ndaj qytetit. Nuk po gjej fjalen e duhur tani por mendoj dicka si "peshtiros".
dhe ne vargun tjeter:
"[B]DISCONNECT[B] the phone"
ju shkruani:
"MBYLL telefonin"
disconnect - nuk jam dakort thjesht me mbyll mbasi mbyll nenkupton idene qe po fliste me dike, do te sugjeroja "shkepus". Shpreh me sakte qellimet e autorit ne kete rast.
Fundin pastaj nuk ta mora vesh fare. Me duket sikur ke harruar ndonje fjale plus disa gabime ortografike nga shpejtesia e te shkruarit ne tastiere.
Citim:
Po citoj ato që tha ingmetalboy
Me pelqen si e ke perkthyer. Nuk tingellon dhe aq e huaj edhe ne shqip. Ishin dy fjale qe do te vecoja per ti rimenduar.
kur Bukowski shkruan:
"outside is the city, the city outside, a thing that
[B]CREEPS to the call of bells and lights,"
ju e keni perkthyer:
"Përjasha është qyteti, qyteti përjashta, dicka
që ZVARRITET pas thirrjes së sirenave dhe sinjaleve"
creeps - ketu shpreh me shume se zvarritje, shpreh nje lloj negativizmi dhe neverie ndaj qytetit. Nuk po gjej fjalen e duhur tani por mendoj dicka si "peshtiros".
dhe ne vargun tjeter:
"DISCONNECT[B] the phone"
ju shkruani:
"MBYLL telefonin"
disconnect - nuk jam dakort thjesht me mbyll mbasi mbyll nenkupton idene qe po fliste me dike, do te sugjeroja "shkepus". Shpreh me sakte qellimet e autorit ne kete rast.
Fundin pastaj nuk ta mora vesh fare. Me duket sikur ke harruar ndonje fjale plus disa gabime ortografike nga shpejtesia e te shkruarit ne tastiere.
Nuk jam dakort me kuptimin qe i ke dhene fjales "creeps" ne kete rast, por I guess ne pamundesi per te gjetur nje fjale me te pershtatshme ne shqip qe sic thoni ju kenaq tempin e poezise po e le me kaq.
Per strofen e fundit do te shkruaja:
Qyteti është më mizor se muret
dhe fundja muret janë gjithë c’kemi
dhe
pothuaj asgje eshte
shume me mire se absolutisht hic.
Citim:
Po citoj ato që tha ingmetalboy
Nuk jam dakort me kuptimin qe i ke dhene fjales "creeps" ne kete rast, por I guess ne pamundesi per te gjetur nje fjale me te pershtatshme ne shqip qe sic thoni ju kenaq tempin e poezise po e le me kaq.
Per strofen e fundit do te shkruaja:
Qyteti është më mizor se muret
dhe fundja muret janë gjithë c’kemi
dhe
pothuaj asgje eshte
shume me mire se absolutisht hic.
The man with the beautiful eyes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW12Ealvj0s
When we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
always
drawn
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
bamboo
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
Tarzan
( although there was no
Jane)
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
tame.
They came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
bread
from our hands.
Our parents had
told us:
" never go near that
house"
so, of course,
we went.
We wondered if anybody
lived there.
Weeks went by and we
never saw
anybody.
Then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house
" YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!"
It was a mans
voice.
Then the screen
door
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked out.
He was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
hand.
He was about
30.
He had a cigar
in his
mouth,
needed a
shave.
His hair was
wild and
uncombed
and he was
barefoot.
In undershirt
and pants
but his eyes
were
bright
they BLAZED
with brightness
and he said,
"hey, little
gentleman,
having a good
time, I
hope?"
Then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the
house.
We left,
went back to my
parents yard
and thought
about it.
Our parents,
we decided
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
like
that,
a strong natural
man
with
beautiful
eyes.
Our parents
were ashamed
that they were
not
like that
man,
thats why they
wanted us to stay
away.
But
we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
goldfish.
We went back
many times
for many
weeks
but we never
saw
or heard
the man
again.
The shades were
down
as always
and it was
quiet.
Then one day
as we came back from
school
we saw the
house.
It had burned
down,
there was nothing
left,
just a smoldering
twisted black
foundation
and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
there,
drying out.
We went back to
my parents yard
and talked about
it
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
them
had killed the
goldfish
because it was
all too
beautiful,
even the bamboo
forest had
burned.
They had been
afraid of
the man with the
beautiful
eyes.
And
we were afraid
than
that
all throughout our lives
things like that
would happen,
that nobody
wanted
anybody
to be
strong and
beautiful
like that,
that
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to
die.
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