Read Love Is a Dog From Hell Page 6

before she writes

  her poems

  cockroach

  the cockroach crouched

  against the tile

  while I was pissing and as

  I turned my head

  he hauled his butt

  into a crack.

  I got the can and sprayed

  and sprayed and sprayed

  and finally the roach came out

  and gave me a very dirty look.

  then he fell down into

  the bathtub and I watched

  him dying

  with a subtle pleasure

  because I paid the rent

  and he didn’t.

  I picked him up with

  some greenblue toilet

  paper and flushed him

  away. that’s all there

  was to that, except

  around Hollywood and

  Western we have to

  keep doing it.

  they say some day that

  tribe is going to

  inherit the earth

  but we’re going to

  make them wait a

  few months.

  who in the hell is Tom Jones?

  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.

  defeat

  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.

  traffic signals

  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.

  462-0614

  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.

  photographs

  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.

  social

  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.

  one to the breastplate

  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.

  the worst and the best

  in the hospitals and jails

  it’s the worst

  in madhouses

  it’s the worst

  in penthouses

  it’s the worst

  in skid row flophouses

  it’s the worst

  at poetry readings

  at rock concerts

  at benefits for the disabled

  it’s the worst

  at funerals

  at weddings

  it’s the worst

  at parades

  at skating rinks

  at sexual orgies

  it’s the worst

  at midnight

  at 3 a.m.

  at 5:45 p.m.

  it’s the worst

  falling through the sky

  firing squads

  that’s the best

  thinking of India

  looking at popcorn stands

  watching the bull get the matador

  that’s the best

  boxed lightbulbs

  an old dog scratching

  peanuts in a celluloid bag

  that’s the best

  spraying roaches

  a clean pair of stockings

  natural guts defeating natural talent

  that’s the best

  in front of firing squads

  throwing crusts to seagulls

  slicing tomatoes

  that’s the best

  rugs with cigarette burns

  cracks in sidewalks

  waitresses still sane

  that’s the best

  my hands dead

  my heart dead

  silence

  adagio of rocks

  the world ablaze

  that’s the best

  for me.

  coupons

  cigarettes wetted with beer from

  the night before

  you light one

  gag

  open the door for air

  and on your doorstep

  is a dead sparrow

  his head and breast

  chewed away.

  hanging from the doorknob

  is an ad from the All American

  Burger

  consisting of several coupons

  which

  say

  that with the purchase

  of a burger

  from Feb. 12 thru Feb. 15

  you can get a free

  regular size bag of french

  fries and one

  10 oz. cup of coca cola.

  I take the ad

  wrap the sparrow

  carry him to the trash bin

  and dump him

  in.

  look:

  forsaking fries and coke

  to help keep

  my city

  clean.

  luck

  what’s bad about all

  this

  is watching people

  drinking coffee and

  waiting. I would

  douse them all

  with luck. they need

  it. they need it

  worse than I do.

  I sit in cafes

  and watch them

  waiting. I suppose

  there’s not much

  else to do. the

  flies walk up and

  down the windows

  and we drink our

  coffee and pretend

  n
ot to look at

  each other. I

  wait with them.

  between the movement

  of the flies

  people walk by.

  dog

  a single dog

  walking alone on a hot sidewalk of

  summer

  appears to have the power

  of ten thousand gods.

  why is this?

  trench warfare

  sick with the flu

  drinking beer

  my radio on loud

  enough to overcome

  the sounds of the

  stereo people who

  have just moved

  into the court

  across the way.

  asleep or awake

  they play their

  set at top volume

  leaving their

  doors and windows