Come On In!. Charles Bukowski

working out in Hades

      holy Christ, I was on fire then and

      I’d tell that whore I lived with on Beacon Street

      starving and drinking

      I’d tell her that I had something great and mysterious

      going for me,

      in fact, when I got really drunk I’d pace the floor in my

      dirty torn shorts and ripped undershirt and

      say more in desperation than belief: “I’m a fucking

      genius and nobody knows it but

      me!”

      I thought this was rather humorous but she’d say, “honey, you’re

      full of shit, pour us another drink!”

      she was crazy too and now and then an empty bottle would come

      flying toward my head.

      (she

      missed most of the time)

      but

      when she bounced one off my skull I’d ignore it, and pour another

      drink because

      after all, when you’re immortal, nothing

      matters.

      and besides, she had one of the finest pair of legs I’d ever

      seen

      in those high-heeled shoes and with her slender

      ankles and her great knees glimmering in the

      smoky drunken light.

      she helped me through some of the worst times and if she was

      here now we’d both laugh our goddamned asses

      off

      knowing it was all so true and real, and yet that somehow it

      wasn’t real at

      all.

       half-a-goldfish

      we were out on the town

      and we

      went to this nice

      house, lovely couple, etc.

      anyhow, there were 7 or

      8 of us and a jug of really

      cheap wine

      came out and then some

      snacks, and then the man

      got up and came back with

      3 live goldfish and he said,

      “watch this!”

      and he put them in a large

      fish tank

      and the next thing I knew

      there were 6 or 7 heads

      down there glued to the fish tank

      including my girlfriend’s

      and the soft light from the tank

      shone on all the faces

      and in all the eyes,

      and one of the men went,

      “ah!” and one of the girls

      went, “oooh!”

      some terrible thing was eating the

      goldfish.

      then somebody said, “look,

      there’s just half-a-goldfish

      left and he’s still swimming

      around!”

      I said, “why don’t you fucking

      party animals

      get up off that rug

      and help me finish this

      cheap wine?”

      12 or 14 eyes turned and looked at

      me. then one at a time

      the people moved away from

      the fish tank and came back and sat

      down at the table

      again.

      then they began a discussion about

      the merits of

      little literary

      magazines.

       lousy mail

      the time comes when the tank runs

      dry and you have to

      refill

      if you can.

      the vulture swoops low over

      you

      as you open the manila envelope

      from the ivy league university and

      read:

      “we have to pass on this batch of poems

      but we are reading again in the

      Fall.”

      “you were rejected?” asks my

      wife.

      “yes.”

      “well, fuck them,” she says.

      now, there’s loyalty!

      the vulture pauses in mid-flight,

      defecates,

      and flies out of the dining room

      window.

      and I think, it’s nice that they’ll be

      reading again in the

      Fall.

       from the Dept. of English

      we are surprised:

      you used to jab with the left

      then throw a left hook to the body

      followed by an

      overhand right.

      we liked that

      but we like your new way too:

      where you can’t tell where

      the next punch

      is coming

      from.

      to change your style like that when you’re

      not exactly a kid

      anymore,

      I think that takes some

      doing.

      anyhow, enough chitchat.

      we’re accepting your poems

      for our departmental Literary Journal

      and, by the way,

      you are one of the poets selected for

      class discussion

      in our Contemporary Poetry Series.

      no shit, baby?

      well, suck my