the flower of zero

we go from small rooms to small graves with nothing   left
over, not even Art–it’s fake, it’s futile, and unlike
other shit it takes longer to
vanish.

we never had much to go with, oh so very little to go
with, just what we had, and we did sometimes laugh but
not too much or too
loudly.

we are riffed about, tolled away with an exactness one
can neither really compliment or
defeat.

within the bum dream, within the Bomb dream
going on seems to be like being in a fast clothes dryer
spinning, flipping and flailing
about.

now we idly stare at a kitchen
shelf

as the blue elves burn, as Baron Manfred von Richtoven
chews upon tracer bullets in his
coffin

the cranking of the impossible scream is shut off by the
mathematic.

you know what I
mean.

I only wish we could invent a new word for the hell we are
more than situated with
here

this immense sadness of our time, our one time
saturates, as old drunks lean over their
beerglasses

the mole   crawls within the cliché of our existence as
flies the size of buzzards land on my brain I
check the boxscores for the statistics of   my favorite
first
baseman.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1985
Source
Original manuscript