I am known

it’s a bad day at the
track:   I’ve made some
unfortunate plays
caused more by
mental letdown than
anything
else–
it’s simply the effect of
battle-
weariness.
many gamblers suffer
this.
a long time player
friend
once described it to
me
as
“the death wish.”

besides this, it’s quite
hot and the smog lays over
everything: the horses, the
patrons, the toteboard
and
I have a worse
hangover
than
usual

when up rushes this fellow with
a large cardboard face, false
eyes, megaphone
voice:

“HEY, CHUCK! HOW YA DOIN’?”

I don’t know
him but tell him, “not
too good…”

then turn, walk
off…

“NOT TOO GOOD, HUH
CHUCK?”

I hear him…

well, somewhere over the rainbow
bluebirds fly
and I hope they shit
all over
him.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1986
Source
Original manuscript