Come On In by Charles Bukowski Read Free Book Online Page B

is to say that in spite of
    everything, I feel good
    most of the
    time.
    I appear to handle setbacks, bad
    luck, minor tragedies, without
    difficulty, my mood remains
    unchanged.
    much experience, perhaps, has taught
    me
    how to remain unmoved.

    yet there is one situation
    I can’t endure:
    a bitter, depressed, angry
    woman
    can still murder any
    good feelings
    that I might have—and
    just like that I despair and
    fall into a black
    pit.
    this occurs with some
    regularity and unfortunately
    in the wink of an
    eye I am sullen and
    depressed.
    and that’s stupid,
    I should be able to ignore
    female
    disorders
    even as the dark shit
    (that despite the dark shit)
    floods my
    brain.

do you believe that a man can be taught to write?
    there was my cheap hotel; I was up on the 4th floor; I’d
    bring a lady in from the bar 2 or 3 times a week and we’d burst into that
    lobby like we wanted to wreck something, and the desk clerk, a really
    nice fellow, was terrified of me, I was big of chest and gut and when
    the writing was going badly, which it often was, upon
    entering with my lady, I’d take it out on the desk clerk: “hey,
    buddy, I think I’ll take one of your legs, twist it up the middle
    of your back and wind you like a clock!”
    I had him so scared he only called the cops once or twice and I
    had fun with the cops—barricading the door and listening to the dumb
    useless double-talk that cops liked to use; I always wore them
    down and they never got in. 
    up there I stripped to my undershirt and shorts, I was nuts,
    had very muscular legs, strutted up and down the room saying, “look at
    my legs, baby! you ever seen legs like that?” 
    I always pretended to be the toughest guy in town but
    when it actually came to fighting I wasn’t all that good: I
    could take a hell of a punch and didn’t have much fear but my own left
    hook and right cross were missing, and worse, I couldn’t seem to
    get the hatred going, it all seemed a joke to me, even when some guy was
    crushing my head against the edge of some urinal.
    but let’s forget all that! up on that 4th floor, I was best, the red neon
    sign near the downtown library flashing CHRIST SAVES, me
    strutting about and proclaiming, “nobody knows I’m a genius but
    me!”
    and all the time I was strutting I would glance over at my lady of
    the night, looking at those legs, those high heels, thinking, I’m going
    to rip the love out of those high-heeled shoes and those ankles and those
    thighs and that dumb pitiful face, I’m going to make her come alive!
    and poor Hemingway, I thought, never met dolls like I’ve met
    dolls!
    which was true.
    he would have walked away.

hail and farewell
    as gentle as a butterfly
    fluttering in the
    murdered light
    you came through here
    like fire singing
    and when it was over
    the walls came down
    the flags went up
    and love was finished.
    you left behind a pair of shoes
    an old purse
    and some birthday and
    Xmas cards
    from me all
    held together
    by a green rubber
    band.
    all well and good enough,
    I suppose,
    because
    when your lover is gone,
    thank the gods,
    the silence is
    final.

weep
    weep for the indifference of flying fish
    weep for the absence of long-haired blondes
    weep for the sadness of yourself
    weep for Bach
    weep for the extinct animals
    weep for grandfather’s clock
    weep for weeping
    because no one cares
    the doors open in and out
    the lights go on and off
    teeth are pulled
    I forgive the indifference of flying fish
    I forgive the butterfly and the moth
    I forgive the first woman who held my psyche
    in her fingertips when
    I was sold into captivity
    long ago.

 
    a note upon modern poesy
    poetry has come a long way, though very slowly;
    you aren’t as old as I am
    and I can remember reading
    magazines where at the end of a poem
    it said:
    Paris, 1928 .
    that seemed to make a
    difference, and so, those who could afford to
    (and some who couldn’t)
    went to
    PARIS
    and wrote. 
    I am also old enough so that