You hear the song. And it is long ago.
You look for it with the sun in your face.
But you don’t remember.
You honestly don’t remember.
For Semra, with Martial Vigor
How much do writers make? she said
first off
she’d never met a writer
before
Not much I said
they have to do other things as well
Like what? she said
Like working in mills I said
sweeping floors teaching school
picking fruit
whatnot
all kinds of things I said
In my country she said
someone who has been to college
would never sweep floors
Well that’s just when they’re starting out I said
all writers make lots of money
Write me a poem she said
a love poem
All poems are love poems I said
I don’t understand she said
It’s hard to explain I said
Write it for me now she said
All right I said
a napkin/a pencil
for Semra I wrote
Not now silly she said
nibbling my shoulder
I just wanted to see
Later? I said
putting my hand on her thigh
Later she said
O Semra Semra
Next to Paris she said
Istanbul is the loveliest city
Have you read Omar Khayyam? she said
Yes yes I said
a loaf of bread a flask of wine
I know Omar backwards
& forwards
Kahlil Gibran? she said
Who? I said
Gibran she said
Not exactly I said
What do you think of the military? she said
have you been in the military?
No I said
I don’t think much of the military
Why not? she said
goddamn don’t you think men
should go in the military?
Well of course I said
they should
I lived with a man once she said
a real man a captain
in the army
but he was killed
Well hell I said
looking around for a saber
drunk as a post
damn their eyes retreat hell
I just got here
the teapot flying across the table
I’m sorry I said
to the teapot
Semra I mean
Hell she said
I don’t know why the hell
I let you pick me up
Looking for Work [1]
I’ve always wanted brook trout
for breakfast.
Suddenly, I find a new path
to the waterfall.
I begin to hurry.
Wake up,
my wife says,
you’re dreaming.
But when I try to rise,
the house tilts.
Who’s dreaming?
It’s noon, she says.
My new shoes wait by the door.
They are gleaming.
Cheers
Vodka chased with coffee. Each morning
I hang the sign on the door:
OUT TO LUNCH
but no one pays attention; my friends
look at the sign and
sometimes leave little notes,
or else they call—Come out and play,
Ray-mond.
Once my son, that bastard,
slipped in and left me a colored egg
and a walking stick.
I think he drank some of my vodka.
And last week my wife dropped by
with a can of beef soup
and a carton of tears.
She drank some of my vodka, too, I think,
then left hurriedly in a strange car
with a man I’d never seen before.
They don’t understand; I’m fine,
just fine where I am, for any day now
I shall be, I shall be, I shall be…
I intend to take all the time in this world,
consider everything, even miracles,
yet remain on guard, ever
more careful, more watchful,
against those who would sin against me,
against those who would steal vodka,
against those who would do me harm.
Rogue River Jet-Boat Trip,
Gold Beach, Oregon, July 4, 1977
They promised an unforgettable trip,
deer, marten, osprey, the site
of the Mick Smith massacre —
a man who slaughtered his family,
who burnt his house down around his ears —
a fried chicken dinner.
I am not drinking. For this
you have put on your wedding ring and driven
500 miles to see for yourself.
This light dazzles. I fill my lungs
as if these last years
were nothing, a little overnight portage.
We sit in the bow of the jet-boat
and you make small talk with the guide.
He asks where we’re from, but seeing
our confusion, becomes
confused himself and tells us
he has a glass eye and we
should try to guess which is which.
His good eye, the left, is brown, is
steady of purpose, and doesn’t
miss a thing. Not long past
I would have snagged it out
just for its warmth, youth, and purpose,
and because it lingers on your breasts.
Now, I no longer know what’s mine, what
isn’t. I no longer know anything except
I am not drinking—though I’m still weak
and sick from it. The engine starts.
The guide attends the wheel.
Spray rises and falls on all sides
as we head upriver.
II
You Don’t Know What Love Is
(an evening with Charles Bukowski)
You don’t know what love is Bukowski said
I’m 51 years old look at me
I’m in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she’s hung up too
so it’s all right man that’s the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can’t get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don’t let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it’s like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I’ll start throwing people out windows
I’ll throw anybody out the window
I’ve done it
But you don’t know what love is
You don’t know because you’ve never
been in love it’s that simple
I got this young broad see she’s beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don’t know what love is
I’m telling you what it is
but you aren’t listening
There isn’t one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ass
I used to think poetry rea
dings were a copout
Look I’m 51 years old and I’ve been around
I know they’re a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what’s his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he’s a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you’re teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven’t heard of him
or him either
They’re all termites
Maybe it’s ego I don’t read much anymore
but these people who build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can’t you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn’t it
You wouldn’t think a crude bastard like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
Shit I couldn’t write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that’s the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you’re a lucky man
Bukowski you’ve gone through it all
and you’re a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this
and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it’s good to be poor it’s good to have hemorrhoids
it’s good to be in love
But you don’t know what it’s like
You don’t know what it’s like to be in love
If you could see her you’d know what I mean
She thought I’d come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
Shit I’m 51 years old and she’s 25
and we’re in love and she’s jealous
Jesus it’s beautiful
she said she’d claw my eyes out if I came up here and got laid
Now that’s love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I’ve met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They’re bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet’s socks are dirty
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won’t disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there’s only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that’s me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They’d fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what’s it like I’ve been there
I’m 51 years old now and I’m in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you’re full of shit
and I say baby you understand me
She’s the only broad in the world
man or woman
I’d take that from
But you don’t know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted
We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don’t see any poets
I’m not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don’t know what it is to be in love
that’s your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That’s right no ice good
That’s good that’s just fine
So let’s get this show on the road
I know what I said but I’ll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let’s go let’s get this over with
only afterwards don’t anyone stand close
to an open window
III
Morning, Thinking of Empire
We press our lips to the enameled rim of the cups
and know this grease that floats
over the coffee will one day stop our hearts.
Eyes and fingers drop onto silverware
that is not silverware. Outside the window, waves
beat against the chipped walls of the old city.
Your hands rise from the rough tablecloth
as if to prophesy. Your lips tremble…
I want to say to hell with the future.
Our future lies deep in the afternoon.
It is a narrow street with a cart and driver,
a driver who looks at us and hesitates,
then shakes his head. Meanwhile,
I coolly crack the egg of a fine Leghorn chicken.
Your eyes film. You turn from me and look across
the rooftops at the sea. Even the flies are still.
I crack the other egg.
The Blue Stones
If I call stones blue it is because
blue is the precise word, believe me.
— FLAUBERT
You are writing a love scene
between Emma Bovary and Rodolphe Boulanger,
but love has nothing to do with it.
You are writing about sexual desire,
that longing of one person to possess another
whose ultimate aim is penetration.
Love has nothing to do with it.
You write and write that scene
until you arouse yourself,
masturbate into a handkerchief.
Still, you don’t get up from the desk
for hours. You go on writing that scene,
writing about hunger, blind energy —
the very nature of sex —
a fiery leaning into consequence
and eventually, utter ruin
if unbridled. And sex,
what is sex if it is not unbridled?
You walk on the strand that night
with your magpie friend, Ed Goncourt.
You tell him when you write
love scenes these days you can jackoff
without leaving your desk.
“Love has nothing to do with it,” you say.
You enjoy a cigar and a clear view of Jersey.
The tide is going out across the shingle,
and nothing on earth can stop it.
The smooth stones you pick up and examine
under the moon’s light have been made blue
from the sea. Next morning when you pull them
from
your trouser pocket, they are still blue.
— for my wife
Tel Aviv and Life on the Mississippi
This afternoon the Mississippi —
high, roily under a broiling sun,
or low, rippling under starlight,
set with deadly snags come out to fish
for steamboats —
the Mississippi this afternoon
has never seemed so far away.
Plantations pass in the darkness;
there’s Jones’s landing appearing out
of nowhere, out of pine trees,
and here at 12-Mile Point, Gray’s
overseer reaches out of fog and receives
a packet of letters, souvenirs and such
from New Orleans.
Bixby, that pilot you loved,
fumes and burns:
D——nation, boy! he storms at you time and again.
Vicksburg, Memphis, St Looey, Cincinnati,
the paddleblades flash and rush, rush
upriver, soughing and churning
the dark water.
Mark Twain you’re all eyes and ears,
you’re taking all this down to tell later,
everything,
even how you got your name,
quarter twain, mark twain,
something every schoolboy knew
save one.
I hang my legs further over the banister
and lean back in shade,
holding to the book like a wheel,
sweating, fooling my life away,
as some children haggle,
then fiercely slap each other
in the field below.
The News Carried to Macedonia
On the banks of the
river they call Indus today
we observe a kind of
bean
much like the Egyptian bean
also
crocodiles are reported
upstream & hillsides grown over
with myrrh & ivy
He believes
we have located the headwaters
of the River Nile
we offer
sacrifice
hold games
for the occasion
There is much rejoicing &
the men think
we shall turn back
These elephants their
emissaries offer
are giant
terrifying beasts yet
with a grin he yesterday
ran up a ladder onto
the very top of one
beast
The men
cheered him & he
waved & they cheered him
again