one for the showshine man - Charles Bukowski

Discussion in 'Writer's Block' started by Mabus, Jul 6, 2003.

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  1. Mabus

    Mabus Don't Try

    Joined:
    Feb 17, 2001
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    Typed as it is written in the poetry book "Love is a dog from hell; poems from 1974-1977"

    the balance is preserved by the snails climbing the Santa Monica cliffs;
    the luck is in walking down Western Avenue
    and having the girls in the massage
    parlor holler at you, "Hello, Sweetie!"
    the miracle is having 5 women in love
    with you at age 55,
    and the goodness is that you are only able
    to love one of them.
    the gift is having a daughter more gentle
    than you are, whose laughter is finer
    than yours.
    the peace come from driving a
    blue 67 Volks through the streets like a
    teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You
    Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum
    of the rebuilt motor
    as you needle through traffic.
    the grace of being able to like rock music,
    symphony music, jazz...
    anything that contains the orginal energy of
    joy.

    and the probability that returns
    is the deep blue low
    yourself flat upon yourself
    within the guillotine walls
    angry at the sound of the phone
    or anybody's footsteps passing;
    but the other probability-
    the lifting high that always follows-
    makes the girl at the checkstand in the
    supermarket look like
    Marilyn
    like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover
    like the girl in high school that we
    all followed home.

    there is that which helps you believe
    in something else besides death;
    somebody in a car approaching
    on a street too narrow,
    and he or she pulls aside to let you
    by, or the old fighter Beau Jack
    shining shoes
    after blowing his entire bankroll
    on parties
    on women
    on parasites,
    humming, breathing on the leather,
    working the rag
    looking up and saying:
    "what the hell, I had it for a
    while. that beats the
    other."

    I am bitter sometimes
    but the taste has often been
    sweet. it's only that I've
    feared to say it. it's like
    when your women says
    "tell me you love me," and
    you can't.

    if you see me grinning from
    my blue Volks
    running a yellow light
    driving straight into the sun
    I will be locked in the
    arms of a
    crazy life
    thinking of trapeze artists
    of midgets with big cigars
    of a Russian winter in the early 40's
    of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil
    of an old waitress bringing me an extra
    cup of coffee and laughing
    as she does so.

    the best of you
    I like more than you think.
    the others don't count
    except that they have fingers and heads
    and some of them eyes
    and most of them legs
    and all of them
    good and bad dreams
    and a way to go.

    justice is everywhere and it's working
    and the machine guns and the frogs
    and the hedges will tell you
    so.
    test
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