CHARLES BUKOWSKI
BETTING ON THE MUSE
POEMS & STORIES
for Linda Lee
TABLE OF CONTENTS
splash
the women
the monkey
Whistler
the pleasures of the damned
those marvelous lunches
panties
the dead flowers of myself
me against the world
the snails
again
the World War One movies
to hell and back in a buggy carriage
stages
escape
woman on the street
CONFESSION OF A COWARD
the secret
somebody else
A View from the Quarter, March 12th, 1965:
drink
black and white
and all the snow melted
an empire of coins
A NICKEL
nature poem
warning
answer to a note on the dresser:
you don’t know
let not
the death of a roach
the unwritten
right now
the sheep
piss
last fight
defining the magic
writing
views
the strong man
the terror
the kiss-off
betting on the muse
THE UNACCOMMODATING UNIVERSE
met a man on the street
hell is now
the kid
“To Serve and Protect”
bad day
the dick
fall of the Roman Empire
people
RANSOM
it’s difficult for them
think of it
chicken giblets
the lover
no win
THE STAR
an evaluation
neon
they think this is the way it’s done
the pile-up
12 minutes to post
as the poems go
the telephone
HIDEAWAY
this dirty, valiant game
stay out of my slippers, you fool
the voice
the bard of San Francisco
on biographies
a real break
avoiding humanity
WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LOVING, LAUGHING GIRL IN THE GINGHAM DRESS?
the luck of the word
bad form
last call
the shape of the Star
upon reading a critical review
Paris, what?
a social call
the girls we followed home
slow starter
barstool
look back, look up
Paris
the good soul
lousy mail
THE SUICIDE
confession of a genius
traffic report
hands
final score
the misanthrope
putting it to bed
the trash can
block
storm
the similarity
MY MADNESS
pastoral
finis
that rare good moment
doesn’t seem like much
strange luck
until it hurts
DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON
the gods
floss, brush and flush
a great show
epilogue
Fante
it got away
the luck of the draw
let it enfold you
the 13th month
finis, II
the observer
August, 1993
this night
betting on now
decline
in the mouth of the tiger
the laughing heart
a challenge to the dark
so now?
About the Author
Other Books by charles bukowski
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
splash
the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
poem.
this is a beggar’s knife.
this is a tulip.
this is a soldier marching
through Madrid.
this is you on your
death bed.
this is Li Po laughing
underground.
this is not a god-damned
poem.
this is a horse asleep.
a butterfly in
your brain.
this is the devil’s
circus.
you are not reading this
on a page.
the page is reading
you.
feel it?
it’s like a cobra.
it’s a hungry eagle
circling the room.
this is not a poem.
poems are dull,
they make you
sleep.
these words force you
to a new
madness.
you have been blessed,
you have been pushed
into a
blinding area of
light.
the elephant dreams
with you
now.
the curve of space
bends and
laughs.
you can die now.
you can die now as
people were meant to
die:
great,
victorious,
hearing the music,
being the music,
roaring,
roaring,
roaring.
the women
my uncle Ben was interested in the
ladies
and many a time he would drive up
in his Model-A,
get out and come in with his new
lady.
they’d sit on the couch and chatter
away,
then my Uncle Ben would follow
my father into another
room.
“come on, Henry,” he’d say to my
father,
“let me have a couple of bucks…”
“you’re nothing but a bum,” my
father would answer, “get yourself
a job!”
“Henry, I’m trying!
I’ve been to 6 places already
today!”
“you haven’t, you just want
money for that whore!”
the going rate in those days
was two dollars.
“listen, dear brother, I’m
hungry!”
“you’re hungry to go to bed
with that whore!
where do you find them
all?”
“shhh…she’s a lady, an
actress!”
“get her out of my house!
we don’t allow those kinds
of women in here!”
“Henry, just two bucks…”
“get her out of here before
I throw her out of
here!”
my uncle would walk back into
the other room.
“come on, Clara, let’s go…”
they would leave the house
together
and we would hear the
Mode
l-A starting up and
driving off.
my mother would run about
opening all the windows
and doors.
“she stinks!
that cheap perfume, that
awful cheap perfume!”
“we’re going to have to
fumigate this place!”
my father would scream.
it would be the same
scene over and over
again,
in a few days or a week
the Model-A would pull
up and in would walk
my uncle Ben with
another woman.
“come on, Henry, just
two bucks!”
I never saw my
uncle Ben get his two
bucks
but he tried again and
again.
“those women are so
ugly,” my mother would
say.
“I don’t know where he
finds them,” my father
would say, “and I don’t
know where he gets the
gas for his car!”
they would sit down
then and a great gloom
would fall over them
for the remainder of
the day.
they would stop talking
and just sit there,
there would be nothing
else to do
but just sit there
thinking how terrible it
had been—
that woman actually
daring to enter their
lives,
to leave her smell,
and the remembrance
of
her laughter.
the monkey
one summer Saturday afternoon
during the depression
an organ grinder came into the
neighborhood.
he stopped on each
block
and played his organ
and while he played
the monkey did a little
dance.
it was an awkward dance.
the monkey was on a leash
which sometimes hindered
his movements.
but as we watched
it did a little somersault
or stuck its tongue out
at us.
it was dressed in a vest
and pants and had a
little hat strapped to its
head.
when the music stopped
the man gave it a tin
cup
and the monkey went
from person to
person
cup.
we children gave it
pennies
but some of the adults
gave it nickels,
dimes and
quarters.
then the man would
take the cup and
empty it of the
money.
the man was fat,
needed a
shave
and wore a red
Sultan’s hat
badly faded by
the sun.
the man and the
monkey went from
house to
house.
we followed him.
the monkey had
tiny dark
unhappy
eyes.
then they got to
my father’s
house and stood in
the driveway.
the man began to
play his organ
and the monkey
danced.
the door was
flung open and my
father rushed
out.
“what’s all the god-damned
noise?”
he stood angrily next to the
man.
“that ape is probably
diseased!
if he shits on my lawn
you clean it
up!”
“he’s got a rubber
diaper on,”
said the man,
continuing to
play the
organ.
“that’s unnatural!
how’d you like to
wear
rubber
diapers?”
“they’d look better
on you,”
the man said,
continuing to play
the organ
as the monkey
pirouetted,
then did a
flip.
“what did you
say?” my father
asked.
“you heard me,”
said the
man.
“why don’t you
get a decent job
and put that stinking
animal in the
zoo?” my father
screamed.
the loud screaming
upset the monkey
and he leaped on
top of the
organ.
he had fang-like
yellow teeth
his lips curled back
and he bit the
organ grinder
on the hand,
hard,
grabbed the tin
cup, leaped to the
cement and began
wildly circling with
it.
the man was bleeding
badly.
he took out a handkerchief
and wrapped it around
his hand.
the blood soaked
through.
the monkey took the