A Remembrance

I meant to post this last Sunday and then forgot.
Forgive me, Chuck.

One For the Shoeshine Man

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 a massage

parlor holler at you. "Hello, Sweetie!"

the miracle is having 5 women in love

with you at the age of 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 comes 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 is being able to like rock music,

symphony music, jazz. . .

anything that contains the original 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 lilting high that always follows-

makes the girl at the checkout stand 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 the 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 woman 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 trapese 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.

from Love Is A Dog From Hell

Black Sparrow Press

copyright 1977, Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski

August 16, 1920 - March 9, 1994