macho man

the phone rings and I answer
it, it is a woman, she says
“you are a sick son of a bitch
and I thought I’d tell you
this…”
she hangs up.

I am supposedly
unlisted.

it rings again
“you write this macho bullshit
but you’re probably a
fag, you probably want to suck
black dick!”

she hangs up.

I am watching the Johnny Carson
show, he amuses me, so straight-
backed, dressed in his highschool
go-to-dance suit, touching his nose, his
necktie, the back of his neck, he’ as a
giveaway, he wants desperately to be
all right, just like his audience.

it rings again.

“you don’t know what a real woman
is!
if you ever met a real woman you
wouldn’t know what to do with
her!”

she hangs up.

Carson joked about his jokes being
so bad but he has probably consumed
and murdered more writers than
Bobby Hope.

this time she says, “why do you keep
listening to me?
why don’t you hang up?”

I hang up.
then take the phone off the
hook.

Carson has finished his monologue
smiles
delicately concerned yet
pleased
he goes into his little golf
swing
as the commercial descends
upon me

it’s just another dull night
in San Pedro
as all my male servants
Kitcha Kubee
Des Man DeAblo
La Tabala
and
Swine Herd Sam
stand with their black
dicks
extended

I decide to have my unlisted
number changed to another
unlisted number
but meanwhile
remote control the tv
off
shush the fellows
away
and reach for the pages of
Sam Beckett
as my cross-eyed white cat
leaps upon the
bedcovers.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1983
Source
Original manuscript