written by Charles BukowskiI have just spent one-hour-and-a-half
handicapping tomorrow's
card.
when am I going to get at the poems?
well, they'll just have to wait
they'll have to warm their feet in the
anteroom
where they'll sit gossiping about
me.
"this Chinaski, doesn't he realize that
without us he would have long ago
gone mad, been dead?"
"he knows, but he thinks he can keep
us at his beck and call!"
"he's an ingrate!"
"let's give him writer's block!"
"yeah!"
"yeah!"
"yeah!"
the little poems kick up their heels
and laugh.
then the biggest one gets up and
walks toward the door.
"hey, where are you going?" he is
asked.
"somewhere where I am
appreciated."
then, he
and the others
vanish.
Charles Bukowski
written by Charles Bukowski, published on Sat 05.01.2010 at 04:07
this time has finished me.
written by Charles Bukowski, published on Tue 03.23.2010 at 08:26
I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail
in my old torn bathrobe.
I'm hung over
hair down in my eyes
barefoot
written by Charles Bukowski, published on Wed 02.17.2010 at 14:49
the phone rang at 1:30 a.m.
and it was a man from Denver:
written by Charles Bukowski, published on Sat 02.06.2010 at 18:31
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
written by Charles Bukowski, published on Sun 01.31.2010 at 21:07
often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
written by Charles Bukowski, published on Sat 01.09.2010 at 03:01
hooray say the roses, today is blamesday
and we are red as blood.
hooray say the roses, today is Wednesday
