Back To The Machine Gun

Poem By Charles Bukowski

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
barefoot
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.

Comments about Back To The Machine Gun

Naive..no fumbling for words to depict.....it's a photo framed still life piece of art work..a graphical representation of something petty nobody expects....yet, when read it, hangs over like a pang of sorrow..
.............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 Larry......it'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 poetry...it'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.


3,1 out of 5
239 total ratings

Other poems of BUKOWSKI

A Smile To Remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and

Bluebird

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going

Cause And Effect

the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand

Confession

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed