slump

the sun flaps down through the shades.
I have a pair of black shoes and a pair of
brown shoes
and I hardly remember the girls of college.
there is this numb blood pulsing through the
falcon and the hyena and the pimp
and there’s no escaping this unreasonable affliction
of sorrow.
there’s crabgrass and sassafras and the snoring
of my cat.
there are lifeguards sitting in canvas back chairs
with rotting cheese under their toenails.
there’s the hunter with eyes like wilted rose
petals.
sorrow, yes, it pulls on me
I don’t know why.
avenues of tar slide into my ears.
the worms won’t sing.
the Babe swings again
missing a 3 and 2
twisted
rifted against his
whiskey gut.
cows give milk
dentists pull teeth
thermometers work.

I can sing the blues
it doesn’t cost a dime
laying down tonight
pulling up the covers
this glass factor
this ice factor
this code
this non-manufactured
staggering
pazazz

I got to hit one out
pretty soon.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1978
Source
Original manuscript
This poem appeared in the following books: