I have lain in bed all day
but I have written one poem
and I am up now
looking out the window
and like a novelist might say

I see you drinking at a fountain w
blue hands, no, your hands are not
they are small, and the fountain i
where you wrote me that last lette
I answered and never heard from yo

once
we were young
at this
machine. . .
drinking

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

“what?” they say, “you got a
computer?”
it’s like I have sold out to
the enemy.
I had no idea so many

she was hot, she was so hot
I didn’t want anybody else to have
and if I didn’t get home on time
she’d be gone, and I couldn’t bear
I’d go mad. . .

a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still

I’ll settle for the 6 horse
on a rainy afternoon
a paper cup of coffee
in my hand
a little way to go,

Jane, who has been dead for 31 yea
never could have
imagined that I would write a scre
days together
and

—he’s a dandy
—small moustache
—usually sucking on a cigar
he tends to lean into cars as he
transacts business