The Pleasures of the Damned. Charles Bukowski

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that better?

       where’s your coat?

       go find your coat.

       your coat has to be around somewhere!

       listen, what are you doing?

       what are you playing with?

       now you’ve spilled it all!

       I hear them open the door

       go down the stairway,

       get into the car.

       I hear them drive away. they are gone,

       down the hill

       on the way to

       nursery school.

       grass

      at the window

       I watch a man with a

       power mower

       the sounds of his doing race like

       flies and bees

       on the wallpaper,

       it is like a warm fire, and

       better than eating steak,

       and the grass is green enough

       and the sun is sun enough

       and what’s left of my life

       stands there

       checking glints of green flying;

       it is a giant disrobing of

       care, stumbling away from

       doing.

      suddenly I understand

       old men in rockers

       bats in Colorado caves

       tiny lice crawling into

       the eyes of dead birds.

      back and forth

       he follows his gasoline

       sound. it is

       interesting enough,

       with

       the streets

       flat on their Spring backs

       and smiling.

       crucifix in a deathhand

      yes, they begin out in a willow, I think

       the starch mountains begin out in the willow

       and keep right on going without regard for

       pumas and nectarines

       somehow these mountains are like

       an old woman with a bad memory and

       a shopping basket.

       we are in a basin. that is the

       idea. down in the sand and the alleys,

       this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,

       held like a crucifix in a deathhand,

       this land bought, resold, bought again and

       sold again, the wars long over,

       the Spaniards all the way back in Spain

       down in the thimble again, and now

       real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway

       engineers arguing. this is their land and

       I walk on it, live on it a little while

       near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms

       listening to glazed recordings

       and I think too of old men sick of music

       sick of everything, and death like suicide

       I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your

       hold on the land here it is best to return to the

       Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,

       the poor … I am sure you have seen these same women

       many years before

       arguing

       with the same young Japanese clerks

       witty, knowledgeable and golden

       among their soaring store of oranges, apples

       avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers—

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