Love is a Dog from Hell (9 page)

 

I was shacked with a

24 year old girl from

New York City for

two weeks—about

the time of the garbage

strike out there, and

one night my 34 year

old woman arrived and

she said, “I want to see

my rival.” she did

and then she said, “o,

you’re a cute little thing!”

next I knew there was a

screech of wildcats—

such screaming and scratching,

wounded animal moans,

blood and piss…

 

I was drunk and in my

shorts. I tried to

separate them and fell,

wrenched my knee. then

they were through the screen

door and down the walk

and out in the street.

 

squadcars full of cops

arrived. a police helicopter

circled overhead.

 

I stood in the bathroom

and grinned in the mirror.

it’s not often at the age

of 55 that such splendid

things occur.

better than the Watts

riots.

 

the 34 year old

came back in. she had

pissed all over herself

and her clothing

was torn and she was

followed by 2 cops who

wanted to know why.

 

pulling up my shorts

I tried to explain.

 

listening to Bruckner on the radio

wondering why I’m not half mad

over the latest breakup with my

latest girlfriend

 

wondering why I’m not driving the streets

drunk

wondering why I’m not in the bedroom

in the dark

in the grievous dark

pondering

ripped by half-thoughts.

 

I suppose

that at last

like the average man:

I’ve known too many women

and instead of thinking,

I wonder who’s fucking her now?

I think

she’s giving some other poor son of a bitch

much trouble right now.

 

listening to Bruckner on the radio

seems so peaceful.

 

too many women have gone through.

I am at last alone

without being alone.

 

I pick up a Grumbacher paint brush

and clean my fingernails with the hard sharp end.

 

I notice a wall socket.

 

look, I’ve won.

 

the old folks play a game

in the park overlooking the sea

shoving markers across cement

with wooden sticks.

four play, two on each side

and 18 or 20 others sit in

the sun and watch

I notice this as I move

toward the public facility

as my car is being repaired.

 

an old cannon sits in the park

rusted and useless.

six or seven sailboats ride

the sea below.

 

I finish my duty

come out

and they are still playing.

 

one of the women is heavily rouged

wearing false eyelashes and smoking

a cigarette.

the men are very thin

very pale

wear wristwatches that hurt

their wrists.

 

the other woman is very fat

and giggles

each time a score is made

 

some of them are my age.

 

they disgust me

the way they wait for death

with as much passion

as a traffic signal.

 

these are the people who believe advertisements

these are the people who buy dentures on credit

these are the people who celebrate holidays

these are the people who have grandchildren

these are the people who vote

these are the people who have funerals

 

these are the dead

the smog

the stink in the air

the lepers.

 

these are almost everybody

finally.

 

seagulls are better

seaweed is better

dirty sand is better

 

if I could turn that old cannon

on them

and make it work

I would.

 

they disgust me.

 

I get many phonecalls now.

They are all alike.

“are you Charles Bukowski,

the writer?”

“yes,” I tell them.

and they tell me

that they understand my

writing,

and some of them are writers

or want to be writers

and they have dull and

horrible jobs

and they can’t face the room

the apartment

the walls

that night—

they want somebody to talk

to,

and they can’t believe

that I can’t help them

that I don’t know the words.

they can’t believe

that often now

I double up in my room

grab my gut

and say

“Jesus Jesus Jesus, not

again!
”

they can’t believe

that the loveless people

the streets

the loneliness

the walls

are mine too.

and when I hang up the phone

they think I have held back my

secret.

 

I don’t write out of

knowledge.

when the phone rings

I too would like to hear words

that might ease

some of this.

 

that’s why my number’s

listed.

 

they photograph you on your porch

and on your couch

and standing in the courtyard

or leaning against your car

 

these photographers

women with big asses

which look better to you

than do their eyes or their souls

 

—this playing at author

it’s real Hemingway

James Joyce

stageshit

 

but look—

there are the books

you’ve written them

you haven’t been to Paris

but you’ve written all those books

there behind you

(and others not there,

lost or stolen)

 

all you’ve got to do

is look like Bukowski

for the cameras

but

 

you keep watching

those

astonishingly big asses

and thinking—

somebody else is getting

it

“look into my eyes,”

they say and click their cameras

and flash their cameras

 

and fondle their cameras

Hemingway used to box or go

fishing or to the bullfights

but after they leave

you jerk-off into the sheets

and take a hot bath

 

they never send the photos

like they promise to send the photos

and the astonishingly big asses are

gone forever

and you’ve been a fine literary fellow—

now alive

dead soon enough

looking into and at their eyes and souls

and more.

 

the blue pencil of the wave

shots of yellow road

 

a steering wheel

an insane woman sitting

next to you

 

complaining as the ocean

creams-off

 

and people in yellow and

white

campers

block your way

a frantic

time

as you listen

guilty of this and

guilty of that

 

you admit

this and that

but it’s not

enough

 

she wants splendid

conquest

and you’re weary of

splendid

conquest

 

getting there

she climbs out

walks toward the

house

you piss across the

fender of your car

drunk on beer

 

little spots of you

dripping down into

the dust

the dry

dust

 

zipping up you

march in to

meet her

friends.

 

I have a saying, “the tough ones always come

back.”

 

but Vera was kinder than most,

and so I was surprised when

she arrived that night

and said, “let me in.”

 

“no, no, I’m working on a sonnet.”

 

“I’ll just stay a minute, then I’ll

leave.”

 

“Vera, if I let you in you’ll be here

for 3 or 4 days.”

 

it was night and I hadn’t turned the

porch light on so I couldn’t see it

coming

but

she threw a right that

exploded in the center of my

chest.

 

“baby, that was a beautiful punch.

now move off.”

 

then I closed the door.

 

she was back again in 5 minutes:

“Hank, I can’t find my car, I

swear I can’t find my car. help

me find my car!”

 

I saw my friend Bobby-the-Riff

walking by. “hey, Bobby, help

this one find her car. we’ll

even it up later.”

 

they went off together.

later Bobby said they found her

car parked on somebody’s front

lawn, lights on and motor

running.

 

I haven’t heard from Vera

since

unless she’s the one

who keeps phoning at

2 and 3 and 4 a.m. in the

morning

and doesn’t answer when I

say “hello.”

 

but Bobby says he

can handle her

so I’ve decided to turn her over

to Bobby.

 

she lives on a side street somewhere

in Glendale

and I help him unfold the

roadmap as we sip our

diet Schlitz.