listening to my buddy at the factory

this fellow I worked with, he considered himself extremely
intelligent but
for all his considered intelligence
his voice was usually loud and he seemed well-steeped in
and he told me each day
day by day
of the confrontations against his

(and, as per example):
(he had time for many; here we spare you with

“this broad was always bothering me, knocking on the
door while I was in the shower or phoning while I was
reading Kant, so I finally said, ‘O.k. o.k., I’ll take you
out!’ so I took her to this string quarter at the L.A.
County Museum and after it was over, you know what she
said?   she said that she was bored!   bored with
Beethoven!   can you imagine that?”

“hell,” I said, “Why didn’t you just fuck her?   then
if she had been bored you would have really known

“hey, man,” he said, “I just don’t fuck crap, what are
you talking about?”

unlike my friend at the factory, I often fucked crap and
when there wasn’t any crap about I often fucked

also, string quartets almost always bored me, even those
of Beethoven.

maybe I should have met his girlfriend, we could have had a
hell of an afternoon at Disneyland, then we could have come in,
played Scrabble, watched Johnny Carson, then we could have
entangled our fleshy parts–dull dumb within dumb dull, try-
ing our hindermost to place ourselves within that withering
reality of our mutilated

ain’t that the best out for not much

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript