Betting on the Muse

  CHARLES BUKOWSKI

  BETTING ON THE MUSE

  POEMS & STORIES

  for Linda Lee

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  splash

  the women

  the monkey

  Whistler

  the pleasures of the damned

  those marvelous lunches

  panties

  the dead flowers of myself

  me against the world

  the snails

  again

  the World War One movies

  to hell and back in a buggy carriage

  stages

  escape

  woman on the street

  CONFESSION OF A COWARD

  the secret

  somebody else

  A View from the Quarter, March 12th, 1965:

  drink

  black and white

  and all the snow melted

  an empire of coins

  A NICKEL

  nature poem

  warning

  answer to a note on the dresser:

  you don’t know

  let not

  the death of a roach

  the unwritten

  right now

  the sheep

  piss

  last fight

  defining the magic

  writing

  views

  the strong man

  the terror

  the kiss-off

  betting on the muse

  THE UNACCOMMODATING UNIVERSE

  met a man on the street

  hell is now

  the kid

  “To Serve and Protect”

  bad day

  the dick

  fall of the Roman Empire

  people

  RANSOM

  it’s difficult for them

  think of it

  chicken giblets

  the lover

  no win

  THE STAR

  an evaluation

  neon

  they think this is the way it’s done

  the pile-up

  12 minutes to post

  as the poems go

  the telephone

  HIDEAWAY

  this dirty, valiant game

  stay out of my slippers, you fool

  the voice

  the bard of San Francisco

  on biographies

  a real break

  avoiding humanity

  WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LOVING, LAUGHING GIRL IN THE GINGHAM DRESS?

  the luck of the word

  bad form

  last call

  the shape of the Star

  upon reading a critical review

  Paris, what?

  a social call

  the girls we followed home

  slow starter

  barstool

  look back, look up

  Paris

  the good soul

  lousy mail

  THE SUICIDE

  confession of a genius

  traffic report

  hands

  final score

  the misanthrope

  putting it to bed

  the trash can

  block

  storm

  the similarity

  MY MADNESS

  pastoral

  finis

  that rare good moment

  doesn’t seem like much

  strange luck

  until it hurts

  DEATH IN THE AFTERNOON

  the gods

  floss, brush and flush

  a great show

  epilogue

  Fante

  it got away

  the luck of the draw

  let it enfold you

  the 13th month

  finis, II

  the observer

  August, 1993

  this night

  betting on now

  decline

  in the mouth of the tiger

  the laughing heart

  a challenge to the dark

  so now?

  About the Author

  Other Books by charles bukowski

  Cover

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  splash

  the illusion is that you are simply

  reading this poem.

  the reality is that this is

  more than a

  poem.

  this is a beggar’s knife.

  this is a tulip.

  this is a soldier marching

  through Madrid.

  this is you on your

  death bed.

  this is Li Po laughing

  underground.

  this is not a god-damned

  poem.

  this is a horse asleep.

  a butterfly in

  your brain.

  this is the devil’s

  circus.

  you are not reading this

  on a page.

  the page is reading

  you.

  feel it?

  it’s like a cobra.

  it’s a hungry eagle

  circling the room.

  this is not a poem.

  poems are dull,

  they make you

  sleep.

  these words force you

  to a new

  madness.

  you have been blessed,

  you have been pushed

  into a

  blinding area of

  light.

  the elephant dreams

  with you

  now.

  the curve of space

  bends and

  laughs.

  you can die now.

  you can die now as

  people were meant to

  die:

  great,

  victorious,

  hearing the music,

  being the music,

  roaring,

  roaring,

  roaring.

  the women

  my uncle Ben was interested in the

  ladies

  and many a time he would drive up

  in his Model-A,

  get out and come in with his new

  lady.

  they’d sit on the couch and chatter

  away,

  then my Uncle Ben would follow

  my father into another

  room.

  “come on, Henry,” he’d say to my

  father,

  “let me have a couple of bucks…”

  “you’re nothing but a bum,” my

  father would answer, “get yourself

  a job!”

  “Henry, I’m trying!

  I’ve been to 6 places already

  today!”

  “you haven’t, you just want

  money for that whore!”

  the going rate in those days

  was two dollars.

  “listen, dear brother, I’m

  hungry!”

  “you’re hungry to go to bed

  with that whore!

  where do you find them

  all?”

  “shhh…she’s a lady, an

  actress!”

  “get her out of my house!

  we don’t allow those kinds

  of women in here!”

  “Henry, just two bucks…”

  “get her out of here before

  I throw her out of

  here!”

  my uncle would walk back into

  the other room.

  “come on, Clara, let’s go…”

  they would leave the house

  together

  and we would hear the

  Mode
l-A starting up and

  driving off.

  my mother would run about

  opening all the windows

  and doors.

  “she stinks!

  that cheap perfume, that

  awful cheap perfume!”

  “we’re going to have to

  fumigate this place!”

  my father would scream.

  it would be the same

  scene over and over

  again,

  in a few days or a week

  the Model-A would pull

  up and in would walk

  my uncle Ben with

  another woman.

  “come on, Henry, just

  two bucks!”

  I never saw my

  uncle Ben get his two

  bucks

  but he tried again and

  again.

  “those women are so

  ugly,” my mother would

  say.

  “I don’t know where he

  finds them,” my father

  would say, “and I don’t

  know where he gets the

  gas for his car!”

  they would sit down

  then and a great gloom

  would fall over them

  for the remainder of

  the day.

  they would stop talking

  and just sit there,

  there would be nothing

  else to do

  but just sit there

  thinking how terrible it

  had been—

  that woman actually

  daring to enter their

  lives,

  to leave her smell,

  and the remembrance

  of

  her laughter.

  the monkey

  one summer Saturday afternoon

  during the depression

  an organ grinder came into the

  neighborhood.

  he stopped on each

  block

  and played his organ

  and while he played

  the monkey did a little

  dance.

  it was an awkward dance.

  the monkey was on a leash

  which sometimes hindered

  his movements.

  but as we watched

  it did a little somersault

  or stuck its tongue out

  at us.

  it was dressed in a vest

  and pants and had a

  little hat strapped to its

  head.

  when the music stopped

  the man gave it a tin

  cup

  and the monkey went

  from person to

  person

  holding out its

  cup.

  we children gave it

  pennies

  but some of the adults

  gave it nickels,

  dimes and

  quarters.

  then the man would

  take the cup and

  empty it of the

  money.

  the man was fat,

  needed a

  shave

  and wore a red

  Sultan’s hat

  badly faded by

  the sun.

  the man and the

  monkey went from

  house to

  house.

  we followed him.

  the monkey had

  tiny dark

  unhappy

  eyes.

  then they got to

  my father’s

  house and stood in

  the driveway.

  the man began to

  play his organ

  and the monkey

  danced.

  the door was

  flung open and my

  father rushed

  out.

  “what’s all the god-damned

  noise?”

  he stood angrily next to the

  man.

  “that ape is probably

  diseased!

  if he shits on my lawn

  you clean it

  up!”

  “he’s got a rubber

  diaper on,”

  said the man,

  continuing to

  play the

  organ.

  “that’s unnatural!

  how’d you like to

  wear

  rubber

  diapers?”

  “they’d look better

  on you,”

  the man said,

  continuing to play

  the organ

  as the monkey

  pirouetted,

  then did a

  flip.

  “what did you

  say?” my father

  asked.

  “you heard me,”

  said the

  man.

  “why don’t you

  get a decent job

  and put that stinking

  animal in the

  zoo?” my father

  screamed.

  the loud screaming

  upset the monkey

  and he leaped on

  top of the

  organ.

  he had fang-like

  yellow teeth

  his lips curled back

  and he bit the

  organ grinder

  on the hand,

  hard,

  grabbed the tin

  cup, leaped to the

  cement and began

  wildly circling with

  it.

  the man was bleeding

  badly.

  he took out a handkerchief

  and wrapped it around

  his hand.

  the blood soaked

  through.

  the monkey took the