All The Love Of Me Goes Out To Her

cleverly armed with arguments to the Pope
I make my way among the non-electric people
to seek reasons for my death and living;
it is a charming day for those who like the days–
for those who wait upon the night
as I do, then day is shit and shit is for
and I open the door of a tiny cafe
and a waitress in dark blue
walks up as if I had ordered her.
“3 pheasants legs,” I tell her,
“the back of a chicken and 2 bottles of fair French
she leaves
twitching in her blue
and all the love of me goes out to her
but there is no way,
and I sit looking at the plants
and I say to the plants, with mind,
can’t you love me?
can’t something happen here?
must the sidewalks always be sidewalks, must the generals
continue to laugh in their dreams,
must it always continue to be
that nothing is true?
I look to my left and see a man picking his nose;
he slides the residue under a
chair; quite true, I think, there’s your
truth, and there’s your love:
snot hardening under a chair during
hot nights when hell comes up and simply
spits all over
plants, I say, can’t you?
and I break off part of an elephant leaf
and the whole ceiling splits apart
heaven is a stairway down,
the waitress walks up and says,
“will that be all, sir?”
and I say, “yes, thank you, that is

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: