New Poems Book Three by Charles Bukowski Read Free Book Online Page B

years
    until
    one almost
    wishes
    almost
    begs for
    a larger
    more meaningful
    destiny.
    I can
    almost understand
    why
    people
    leap
    from
    bridges.
    I even
    understand
    in part those
    people who
    arm themselves
    and
    slaughter their
    friends and innocent
    strangers.
    I am
    not exactly
    in sympathy
    with them
    and I decry
    their reckless behavior
    but I can
    understand
    the
    ultimate
    undeniable
    persistent
    force of
    their
    misery.
    the horrific violent
    failure
    of any one
    of us
    to live properly
    says to me that
    we are all equally
    guilty
    for every human
    crime.
    there are
    no
    innocents.
    and if there is
    no
    hell,
    those who coldly
    judge these
    unfortunates
    will
    create
    one for us
    all.

HELP WANTED AND RECEIVED
    I’m stale sitting here
    at this typewriter, the door open on my
    little balcony when suddenly there is a roar in the sky,
    Bruckner shouts back from
    the radio and then the rain comes down glorious and violent,
    and I realize that
    it’s good that the world can explode this way
    because now
    I am renewed, listening and watching as
    droplets of rain splash on my wristwatch.
    the torrent of rain clears my brain and my
    spirit
    as
    a long line of blue lightning splits
    the night sky.
    I smile inside, remembering that
    someone once said, “I’d rather be lucky than good,” and I quickly
    think, “I’d rather be lucky
and
good”
    as tonight
    as Bruckner sets the tone
    as the hard rain continues to fall
    as another blue streak of lightning
    explodes in the sky
    I’m grateful that for the moment I’m
    both.

HEART IN THE CAGE
    frenzy in the marketplace.
    cities burn.
    the world shakes and calls for
    democracy.
    democracy doesn’t work.
    Christianity doesn’t work.
    nor Atheism.
    nothing works but the gun
    and the man on
    top.
    the centuries change and
    Man remains the
    same.
    love buckles and dissolves:
    hatred is the only
    reality
    on continents and in
    rooms of two
    people.
    nothing works but the gun
    and the man on
    top.
    all else is
    meaningless.
    frenzy in the marketplace.
    cities burn
    to be rebuilt to
    burn again.
    democracy doesn’t work.
    Christianity doesn’t work.
    nor Atheism.
    it’s just the gun,
    the gun and the man on
    top.

PLACES TO DIE AND PLACES TO HIDE
    not a chance.
    nothing.
    put your shoes on,
    take them off.
    ride a bicycle through a park in Paris.
    read the great works of our time.
    nothing.
    watch the trapeze artist fall to his death.
    no chance.
    blink your eyes, scratch your nose.
    nothing.
    sit in the dentist’s chair and stare into the face of God.
    nothing.
    watch the 6 horse break from the gate like a cannonball.
    no chance,
    the 8 horse has its number.
    no chance in Vegas.
    no chance in Monte Carlo.
    no chance here in Southern California.
    no hope at the North Pole.
    put your shoes on,
    take them off.
    nothing.
    the windows shine in the black morning
    a Chinese Jew shivers in the frost.
    I bury my father in a green cloak.
    no chance.
    I can’t endure the odds but I must.
    it’s inbred,
    I’m stuck.
    there are my shoes under the bed.
    look at them.
    cold, dead with laces.
    no chance.
    the sadness roars, leaps at the walls.
    one of my cats stares at something unseen.
    I smile, nod.
    nothing.
    nothing new.
    I rip the cellophane off my cigar.
    nothing happens.
    all of civilization collapses like a mighty wave.
    a moth tentatively enters the room.
    the music stops.

POEM FOR THE YOUNG AND TOUGH
    yes, it’s true—I’m mellowing.
    in the old days
    to cross my room you’d have to
    step around and between
    discarded trash and empty
    bottles but
    now the trash is
    packed neatly into
    sturdy garbage cans;
    also I’m a good citizen, I save
    my bottles for the city of Los
    Angeles to
    recycle
    and I haven’t been in a drunk
    tank for a good ten
    years.
    boring, isn’t it?
    but not for me as I now
    stay in at night,
    listen to
    Mahler and watch the walls
    dance;
    as a newly mellow recluse that’s good enough
    for me.
    so I’m turning the streets back over
    to