8 count and up

sometimes you get out of bed in the morning and you think,
I’m not going to make it, but you rather laugh inside
thinking of all the years you felt the same
way, and you walk about, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffeetable, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing out into it
like millions of others you enter the arena once more,
you are on the freeway threading through the slow ones,
you are moving toward something and nothing, you punch the
radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will
get through the slow ones and the fast ones and the dull
ones and the hateful ones and the rare ones, delightful
and sickening things will occur.
we are all so alike and so different, to die one by one
or sometimes en masse,
you find the freeway turnoff drive through the toughest part
of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart
slides through your brain and down along your bones and
out through your shoes.
it’s been a fight worth fighting.
you drive along
betting on another day.

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript