reading the little magazines

until you get so sick of the personal,
the relaxed and funny(?) personal,
things like a visit to mother
or getting your car stolen.
or masturbating in a mortuary rest
the personal, the personal.
like how big your breasts are
and how you used to be a go-go
or how you worked the night shift
at your machine and got these little
silver pieces of metal under your
personal, personal.
like how many wives or husbands
you’ve had.
or how your students ask you
questions and you answer them
wrong and only realize two weeks
or how this guy screwed you from
the back as you drove the motorcycle.
or how she gave you a blow job at
midnight as you drove the car
somewhere through the Arizona desert.

the personal would be all right if it were
better told
but these are just like listening to
somebody blowing wind your way
from the next

which reminds me.
there was this night when I was sitting
in this bar and…

Charles Bukowski
Original manuscript