Markov claims I am trying
to stab his soul
but I’d prefer his wife.
put my feet on the coffee table
and he says,
don’t mind you putting
your feet on the coffee table
except that the legs are wobbly
and the thing
will fall apart
any minute.
leave my feet on the table
but I’d prefer his wife.
would rather, says Markov,
entertain a ditchdigger
or a news vendor
because they are kind enough
to observe the decencies
even though
they don’t know
Rimbaud from rat poison.
my empty beercan
rolls to the floor.
that I must die
bothers me less than
straw, says Markov,
my part of the game
is that I must live
the best I can.
grab his wife as she walks by,
and then her can is against my belly,
and she has fine knees and breasts
and I kiss her.
is not so bad, being old, he says,
calmness sets in, but here’s the catch:
to keep calmness and deadness
separate; never to look upon youth
as inferior because you are old,
never to look upon age as wisdom
because you have experience. a
man can be old and a fool—
many are, a man can be young
and wise—few are. a—
for Christ’s all sake, I wailed,
shut up!
he walked over and got his cane and
walked out.
you’ve hurt his feelings, she said,
he thinks you are a great poet.
he’s too slick for me, I said,
he’s too wise.
had one of her breasts out.
was a monstrous
beautiful
thing.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
