I Think Of Mice Cooling It

we
       most of us
                            end up fools
diddled with by a
pink nurse
who rails us for filling
the pan,
              unless
                       of course
the quicker war-like course:
a finish of mahogany sunlight
bathing beauties
haircuts       flatfeet
alarmclock heart, o
either way
it does not fit
right.
I walk into bars and
down alleys and into offices
wondering what to do,
thinking softly of vines
and various things
such as mice
rubbing their noses with their front
paws.
I look at the people
but the people are intent
with things a madman such as I
consider nonsense:
playing house, getting there, making money &
talking
about it.

the best fable is sleeping
but
it ends.
everywhere the hammers knock down the
donkeys
and the churches are prickly with the
sweat of the prayers.

the bees sting, the windows shine, boats
sink for sharks, cannons sleep in museums,

I walk away from everything
knowing nothing
knowing less and less
my hands a place for my throat,
my feet moving forward like mindless animal
parts.
take me into areas of disuse and moil
tender hell green vine I love you love you
I do.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1965
This poem appeared in the following books: