Basic Bukowski

my style

I watch the jocks come out in the post parade

and one will win the race, the others will lose

but each jock must win sometime in some race

on some day, and he must do it often enough

or he is no longer a jockey. 

it’s like each of us sitting over a typewriter

tonight or tomorrow or next week or next month.

it’s like the girls on the street trying to score

for their pimps

and they have to do it often enough

or they are no longer whores

and we have to do it often enough

or we’re whores who can’t score. 

I would like a little more kindness and warmth

in the structure of things. 

I became a writer but when I was a boy

I used to dream of becoming the village idiot,

I used to lie in bed and imagine myself that careless idiot,

a planned confusion of not too much love or

effort. 

some would claim that I have succeeded

in this. 

— Charles Bukowski, in #4, “twisting the cap off the tube of night,” in Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems, ECCO, 2002, p. 189.

one of those 

Sartre was some fellow, oh yes,

he showed us the bone of

Nowhere and shook it in

our face.

the choice

is yours,

he said,

morals died with God,

you’re on your

own.

every now and then,

during the passing centuries,

some giant among men

arises,

shakes us truly,

shocks us out of our

sleep,

so that, at least for a

time, we become aware,

renewed

as we put our shoes on in

the morning,

as we trundle through our

tasks,

as we eat, defecate,

imagine love,

mail letters,

drive and walk the

city,

things and thoughts

assume different shapes.

Sartre was one of those

giants.

Paris, France, much of the

world

rumbled and bounced

because of

him. 

without some like him,

putting your shoes on in

the morning

would become so difficult

as to be almost

impossible. 

Jean Paul,

thanks

for everything. 

— Charles Bukowski, in #4, “twisting the cap off the tube of night,” in Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems, ECCO, 2002, pp. 207-208.

a model 

I want to be like that

man who entered the

restaurant

tonight,

he parked right in

front

of the front

door.

blocking off a good many

parked cars,

then slammed his car

door shut,

walked in,

his shirt hanging out

over his big

gut.

when he saw the

maitre d’, he

said, “hey, Frank,

get me a fucking

table by the

window!”

and Frank smiled and followed

him

along.

I want to be like

that man.

this way’s not

working. 

for over 70 years

now. 

— Charles Bukowski, in #5, “the big guy doesn’t have me out of here yet,” in Bone Palace Ballet: New Poems, ECCO, 2002, p. 273.