Charles Bukowski

"You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense"

WORKING OUT

Van Gogh cut off his ear
gave it to a
prostitute
who flung it away in
extreme disgust.

Van, whores don't want
ears
they want
money

I guess that's why you were
such a great
painter : you
didn't understand
much
else.

TRUE

One of Lorca's best lines
is,
"agony, always
agony...."

Think of this when you
kill a
cockroach or
pick up a razor to
shave

Or awaken in the morning
to
face the sun

"The Roominghouse Madrigals "

About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter

he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can't seem to
get rid of
him. his novel keeps coming
back. "what do you expect me to do?" he screams
"go to New York and pump the hands of the
publishers?"
"no," I tell him, "but quit your job, go into a
small room and do
the thing."
"but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!"
"some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner--"
"oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he needed them!"
"look," he said, "I'm over at this broad's house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco--saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: 'Fidelio is Beethoven's only
opera.' and then I told
him: 'you're a jerk!' 'whatcha mean?' he
asked. 'I mean, you're a jerk, you're 54 years old and
you don't know anything!'"
"what happened
then?" "I walked out."
"you mean you left him there with
her?"
"yes."

"I can't quit my job," he said. "I always have trouble
getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he's too intelligent for
this job, he won't stay
so there's really no sense in hiring
him.
now, YOU walk into a place and you don't have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here's a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he'll stay a long time and work
HARD!"

"do any of those people," he asks "know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?"
"no."
"you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn't seen you in that magazine I'd
have never known."
"that's right."
"still, I'd like to tell these people that you are a
writer!"
"don't."
"I'd still like to
tell them."
"why?"
"well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk."
"I am both of those."
"well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you
travel
alone.
I'm the only friend you
have."
"yes."
"they talk you down. I'd like to defend you. I'd like to tell
them you write
poetry."
"leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we're all the same."
"well, I'd like to do it for myself then. I want them to know
why
I travel with
you.I speak 7 languages, I know my music--"
"forget it."
"all right, I'll respect your
wishes. but there's something else--" "what?"
"I've been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I've been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can't make up my
mind!"
"buy a piano."
"you think
so?"
"yes."

he walks away
thinking about
it.

I was thinking about it
too:
I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
sad music.

Big Bastard with a Sword

listen, I went to get a haircut, it was a perfectly good day
until they brought it to me, I mean I sat waiting my turn in the
chair and I found a magazine-the usual thing: women with their
breasts hanging out, etc., and then I turned the page and here
were photos of Orientals in a field, there was a big
bastard with the sword-the caption said he had a very good
swing, plenty of power and the picture showed him getting ready
with the sword, and you saw an Oriental kneeling there with his
eyes closed, then-ZIP!-he was kneeling there without a head
and you could see the neck clean, not yet even
spurting blood, the separation having been so astonishingly
swift, and more photos of beheadings, and then a photo of these
heads lolling in the weeds without bodies, the sun shining on
them.
and the heads looking still almost alive as if they hadn't
accepted the death--and then the barber said
next!

and I walked over to the chair and my head was still on
and his head said to my head,
how do you want it?
and I said, medium.
and he seemed like a nice sensible fellow
and it seemed nice to be near nice sensible fellows
and I wanted to ask him about the heads
but I thought it would upset him
or maybe even give him ideas
or he might say something that wouldn't help at
all so I kept quiet.

I listened to him cut my hair
and he began talking about his baby
and I tried to concentrate on his
baby, it seemed very sane and logical
but I still kept thinking about the
heads.

when he finished the cutting
he turned me in the chair so I could look into the
mirror. my head was still on.

fine, I told him, and I got out of the chair, paid, and
gave him a good tip.
I walked outside and a woman walked by and she had her
head on and all the people driving cars had their heads
on.

I should have concentrated on the breasts, I thought,
it's so much better, all that hanging out, or
the magic and beautiful legs, sex was a fine thing
after all, but my day was spoiled, it would take a night's sleep
anyway, to get rid of the heads. it was terrible to be a human
being: there was so much going
on.

I saw my head in a plateglass window
I saw the reflection
and my head had a cigarette in it
my head looked tired and sad
it was not smiling with its new
haircut.

then
it disappeared
and I walked on
past the houses full of furniture and cats and
dogs and people
and they were lucky and I threw the cigarette
into the gutter saw it burning on the asphalt
red and white, a tender spit of smoke,
and I decided that the sun
felt good.

To return back to the colder than snow introduction page.

Last updated on December 30, 1998