god I got the sad blue blues,
this woman sat there and she
said
are you really Charles
Bukowski?

Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the
Orthadox to the
west.
she is dark

one of Lorca’s best lines
is,
“agony, always
agony ...”
think of this when you

almost dawn
blackbirds on the telephone wire
waiting
as I eat yesterday’s
forgotten sandwich

I reached up into the top of the c
and took out a pair of blue pantie
and showed them to her and
asked “are these yours?”

self—congratulatory nonsense as th
famous gather to applaud their see
greatness
you
wonder where

he drank wine all night of the
28th, and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and
the way she told him things that s
but were not, and he knew the colo

at the track today,
Father’s Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a

washed—up, on shore, the old yello
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.

drunk on the dark streets of some
it’s night, you’re lost, where’s y
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.