Poetry: Charles Bukowski - For Jane: With All The Love I Had. Which Was Not Enough - A Following - Here I Am... - Links

Posted by ricardo marcenaro | Posted in | Posted on 11:55












For Jane: With All The Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know:
her dress upon my arm:
but
they will not
give her back to me. 



A Following

the phone rang at 1:30 a.m.
and it was a man from Denver:

"Chinaski, you got a following in
Denver..."
"yeah?"
"yeah, I got a magazine and I want some
poems from you..."
"FUCK YOU, CHINASKI!" I heard a voice
in the background...
"I see you have a friend,"
I said.
"yeah," he answered, "now, I want
six poems..."
"CHINASKI SUCKS! CHINASKI'S A PRICK!"
I heard the other
voice.
"you fellows been drinking?"
I asked.
"so what?" he answered. "you drink."
"that's true..."
"CHINASKI'S AN ASSHOLE!"
then
the editor of the magazine gave me the
address and I copied it down on the back
of an envelope.
"send us some poems now..."
"I'll see what I can do..."
"CHINASKI WRITES SHIT!"
"goodbye," I said.
"goodbye," said the
editor.
I hung up.
there are certainly any number of lonely
people without much to do with
their nights.  



Here I Am...

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music ...
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
 



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Poetry: Charles Bukowski - For Jane: With All The Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough - A Following - Here I Am... - Links


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