the dream, the dream, the dream….

there is alway some Carmen around some
corner
but the Carmens never
last;
the Carmens hardly last any time at
all,
I can see it in the eyes of men
everywhere–
men sitting at lunch counters
men driving busses
men giving political speeches
men pulling teeth
men in tigers cages
men I see everywhere

the man I see shaving
looking at me through slit-eyes
his Carmen gone–
(I said “Carmen” not
“Karma”…)

always thinking about where that
razor could really
go, the thought always
there

but the game keeps us
going:   there is always some Carmen
around some
corner?

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1986
Source
Original manuscript