The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills by Charles Bukowski Page B

my
    back.
     
 
    putting on a shirt that rips across my
    back, rotten rag of a thing,
    and putting on pants with a rip in the
    crotch, I find in the mailbox
    (along with other threats):
    “Dear Mr. Bukowski:
    Would like to see more of your poems for
    possible inclusion in
    _____Poetry Review.
     
 
    How’s it going?”
     

footnote upon the construction of the masses:
     
     
    some people are young and nothing
    else and
    some people are old and nothing
    else
    and some people are in between and
    just in between.
     
 
    and if the flies wore clothes on their
    backs
    and all the buildings burned in
    golden fire,
    if heaven shook like a belly
    dancer
    and all the atom bombs began to
    cry,
    some people would be young and nothing
    else and
    some people old and nothing
    else,
    and the rest would be the same
    the rest would be the same.
     
 
    the few who are different
    are eliminated quickly enough
    by the police, by their mothers, their
    brothers, others; by
    themselves.
    all that’s left is what you
    see.
     
 
    it’s
    hard.
     

kaakaa & other immolations
     
     
    wondrous, sure, kid, you want more
    applejuice? how can you drink that goddamned
    stuff? I hate it. what? no, I’m not Dr.
    Vogel. I’m the daddy. your old man. where’s mama?
    she’s out joining an artist’s colony, oh, that’s a place
    where people go who aren’t
    artists. yes, that’s the way it works almost
    everywhere, sometimes you can go into a hospital and
    it can be 40 floors high and there won’t be a doctor in
    there, and hard to find a nurse either.
    what’s a hospital? a hospital is just a bunch of
    disconnected buttons, dying people and very sophisticated and
    comfortable orderlies, but the whole world is like this:
    nobody knows what they are supposed to know—
    poets can’t write poetry
    mechanics can’t fix your car
    fighters can’t fight
    lovers can’t love
    preachers can’t preach. it’s even like that with
    armies: whole armies led without generals,
    whole nations led without leaders, why the whole thing is like
    trying to copulate with a wooden
    dick…oh, pardon me!
    how old are you? three? three. ah. three fingers, that’s nice!
    you learn fast, my little ducky. what? more
    applejuice? o.k.
    you wanna play train? you wanna take me for a ride?
    o.k., Tucson, we’ll go to Tucson, what the hell!
    damn it, I don’t KNOW if we’re there yet, you’re
    driving!
    what? we’re on the way BACK already?
    you want some candy? shit, you been eatin’ candy for hours!
    listen, I don’t KNOW when your mother will be back, uh?
    well,
    after signing up for the artist’s colony she’s going to a poetry
    reading. what’s a poetry reading? a poetry reading is where
    people gather and read their poetry to each other, the ones
    mostly who can’t write poetry.
    what’s poetry? nobody knows. it changes. it works by itself
    like a snail crawling up the side of a house. oh, that’s a big
    squashy thing that goes all gooey and slimy when you
    step on
    it. am I a snail?
    I guess so kid, what?
    you wanna kaakaa?
    o.k., go ahead. can you get your own pants down? I don’t
    see
    you very often, oh, you want the light on? you want me
    to stay
    or go away? stay? fine, then.
    now kaakaa, little one, that’s it…
    kaakaa…
    so you can grow up to be a big woman and
    do what big women
    do.
    kaakaa.
    at’s it, sweet,
    ain’t it funny?
    mama kaakaa too.
    oh yeah
     
 
    wow!
    that’s all right!
    now wipe your ass.
    no, better than
    that! there, that’s
    better.
    you say I’m kaakaa!
    hey that’s
    good! I like that!
    very funny.
     
 
    now let’s go get some more beer and
    applejuice.
     

a problem of temperament
     
     
    I played the radio all night the night of the 17th.
    and the neighbors applauded
    and the landlady knocked on the door
    and said
    PLEASE
    PLEASE
    PLEASE
    MOVE,
    you make the sheets dirty
    where does the blood come from?
    you never work.
    you lay around and talk to the radio
    and drink
    and you have a beard
    and you are