nuke me, I wouldn’t know…

can’t make it go, any of it, turning in my
card, flat at last, it’s what THEY’VE BEEN
WAITING FOR:   when the booze has stripped away
the raw gamble of creativity–
now they can dance in their streets
and their envy can become condensation:
“yeah, I gotta admit Chinaski could write a
bit… in the old days…”

it’s been over a week, haven’t gotten a
decent word down, and writing was never work
to me, it was a compulsion.

I walk across the room, catch a look at
myself in the mirror:
you disgusting old fart, how long do you think
you’ll be able to play with your words?
everything ends, even your crap….   so
stop your greediness…

never had a problem with writing: not only
prolific but hyper-so… now

62.   what will I do?
go sit in the park with the other old boys?

who ever thought you’d make it this long
anyhow?

this is the first hot night of summer, one
bottle of wine now gone, the radio plays
gloomy chamber music.

I will say one thing, though, it’s nice,
even with everything else lacking, not to be
arguing with a woman tonight.
she’s gone somewhere
and she’s a fairly good sort, and this
poem which never got started is
is now finished
and the second bottle of wine
begun.

now, there’s an art I can
remember.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1982
Source
Original manuscript