I Think Of Hemingway

I think of Hemingway sitting
in a chair, he had a typewriter
and now he no longer touches
his typewriter, he has no more
to say.

and now Belmonte has no more
bulls to kill, sometimes I think
I have no more poems to write,
no more women to love.

I think of the form of the poem
but my feet hurt, there is dirt
on the windows.

the bulls sleep nights in the
fields, they sleep good without

Belmonte sleeps good without
Belmonte but I do not sleep
so well.

I have neither created nor
loved for some time, I swat
at a fly and miss, I am an
old grey dog growing tooth-

I have a typewriter and now
my typewriter no longer has
anything to say.

I will drink until morning
finds me in bed with the
biggest whore of them all:

Belmonte & Poppa, I under-
stand, this is the way it
goes, truly.

I have watched them bring
the dirt down all morning
to fill the holes in the
streets. I have watched
them put new wires on
the poles, it rained
last night, a very
dry rain, it was
not a bombing, only the
world is ending and I am
unable to write
about it.

Charles Bukowski
This poem appeared in the following books: