Back To The Machine Gun

I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail
in my old torn bathrobe.
I'm hung over
hair down in my eyes
gingerly walking on the small sharp rocks
in my path
still afraid of pain behind my four-day beard.

the young housewife next door shakes a rug
out of her window and sees me:
"hello, Hank!"

god damn! it's almost like being shot in the ass
with a .22

"hello," I say
gathering up my Visa card bill, my Pennysaver coupons,
a Dept. of Water and Power past-due notice,
a letter from the mortgage people
plus a demand from the Weed Abatement Department
giving me 30 days to clean up my act.

I mince back again over the small sharp rocks
thinking, maybe I'd better write something tonight,
they all seem
to be closing in.

there's only one way to handle those motherfuckers.

the night harness races will have to wait.

by Charles Bukowski

Comments (18)

.............the poet sets the scene amazingly, I'm sure the day was beautiful.. I could easily imagine how those rocks felt on bare feet.... and the feeling one has when receiving nothing but bad news in the mailbox.. a poem of reality for so many ★
where are your poems's easy to sit back and critisize when you don't even try....Buk is what so many writers pretend to be. He lives, no pretense.
Larry....I strongly disagree....Buk takes the mundane and turns it into true's the flash in the darkness.
fantastic......Buk makes checking his mail as interesting as going to the moon........the mundane into mosters or butterflys.......there's only one way to handle those motherfuckers. I laughed out loud.
A poem either grabs you or it doesnt. A poem might sound like birdshit today and tomorrow it may seem a kindred soul has expressed something ineffable deep in my heart. You cant make someone - even your self - get it. Ive been where he is - alcoholic meandering through life when small randoms inspire me to pick up my gun and get back in the fight. I wish a young housewife would greet me so enthusiastically
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