the male poets whispered
that Julia only gave it to
the blacks.   at the least,
she was always seen with

the poets put it in my head
to go on over there and score
one for Whitey.

early on that 4th. of July evening
I had Julia up against the refrigerator
when this I9 year old boy
walked into the kitchen and asked,
“hey, mom, what’s going on?”

we were introduced and went into
the other room.   I poured the boy
a half glass of Jack Daniels
and watched his delicate lips
pucker as he took little sips of
that would teach him not to
get in the way of his mother’s

then there was a knock on the
door and there was Monzo the
poet and his wife
Denise.   Denise hated me with
a hatred
that was much more powerful than
Monzo’s poems.

I figured the only way to do it
was to drink them all under:
the son, Monzo, his wife and
Julia.   then
I’d ravish Julia.
I had brought along enough
beer and whiskey
to do it.

we drank and then the fireworks
came on at the
and by standing at the window
we could watch the show.

everybody seemed delighted.
“terribly dull shit,” I said.
“Bukowski,” Monzo’s wife said,
“you are so negative!”

I placed my hand against Julia’s ass
as we watched, I pinched her ass,
fondled the crack.
the boy was in the bathroom
then somebody said, “oh,
my god!”
some of the fireworks had fallen
into the tall palm trees
and they were burning,
one setting fire to another.

“now,” I said, “there is something
that is really beautiful!”
“oh, Bukowski,” Monzo’s wife said,
“you are such an obviously obnoxious
son of a bitch!”

the fire engines came and soon spoiled
it for me.   we sat down and drank some
more, they slowly and me in the other
way.   they talked.   they used terms
like lower-class, middle-class, upper
middle-class, upper class.   they talked
about communication.   they talked about
environment and Dylan Thomas.   they
spoke of communes and organic gardens.
they spoke of Yoga.   they talked about free
schools and they talked about growing grass
indoors under ultra-violet light.   they talked
about Tim Leary, Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin,
about the war in Vietman and how they liked
certain cartoons like The Fabulous Furry Freak
Brothers.   they talked about love-ins, they
talked about smoke-ins.   they talked about
how everybody was fucking over the American
Indian.   and they drank very little and I
drank a great deal.   I soon understood that
they had decided to sit it out with Julia to
keep her from being ravished.

I finally gave up
got down to my car
and drove back to my court on
DeLongpre avenue
where I uncapped some beer
and lucked upon some Wagner
on the radio
until my landlady in the back
came up and got me and we went
down to her place
and we drank quarts of Eastside beer
a quart in front of each of us
one after the other
her old man
in a white torn undershirt
his head falling to the table
then lifting
she talked about
(she went to mass every Sunday)
hemorrhoids and gall stones
and operations per same,
and in between we sang the songs
of the 20’s,
Rudy Vallee songs and the like,
and when I left there at
5 a.m.
it was unclearly the 5th. of July
and I had forgotten all about
my failure to ravish

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: