odd

some nights
like this night
seem to crawl along the back of one’s
neck and settle at the back of the head,
stay there
like that
like this.
it is probably a little prelude to
death,
a warm up.
I accept.
then the mind becomes like a
movie:
I see Dostoevsky in a small room
and he is drinking a glass of
milk.
it is not a long movie:
he puts the glass down and it
ends.
then I am back
here.
an air purifier
makes its sounds behind me.
I smoke too much, the whole room
often turns blue
so now my wife has put in the
air purifier.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1991
Source
Original manuscript