thanks for your help

here
there’s less and less to write about as they close in
I’ve barricaded the doors and windows, have water, canned
foods, candles, pliers, wires, bandages, toothpicks, catnip,
mousetraps, reading material, toilet paper, blankets, firearms,
knives, mirrors
–cigarettes, cigars, candy–
memories, regrets, divorce papers,
photographs of
picnics
parades
invasions;
I have roach spray, wine, paperclips, last year’s
calendar.
THIS COULD BE THE LAST POEM.
it could happen any moment, and, of course, I’ve considered and
reconsidered
d e a t h
but haven’t come up with much, really feel
rather foolish about everything, even
living.
–just waiting is the worst.
nothing worse than waiting
just waiting. always hated to
wait.   what’s there about writing that’s so
intolerable?
–like you’re waiting for me to finish this
poem and
I don’t know how to finish
it
so I won’t.
–so, if you happen to see this poem
in a magazine or a book
just
rip this page out
tear it up
and that’s the way this
will
end.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1984
Source
Original manuscript