Monday, August 16, 2010
One of The Buk's Best
the young man on the bus stop bench
he sits all day at the bus stop
at Sunset and Western
his sleeping bag beside him.
he’s dirty.
nobody bothers him.
people leave him alone.
the police leave him alone.
he could be the 2nd coming of Christ
but I doubt it.
the soles of his shoes are completely
gone.
he just laces the tops up
and sits and watches traffic.
I remember my own youthful days
(although I traveled lighter)
they were similar:
park benches
street corners
tarpaper shacks in Georgia for
$1.25 a week
not wanting the skid row church
hand-outs
too crazy to apply for relief
daytimes spent laying in public parks
bugs in the grass biting
looking into the sky
little insects whirling above my head
the breathing of white air
just breathing and waiting.
life becomes difficult:
being ignored
and ignoring.
everything turns into white air
the head fills with white air
and as invisible women sit in rooms
with successful bright-eyed young men
conversing brilliantly about everything
your sex drive
vanishes and it really
doesn’t matter.
you don’t want food
you don’t want shelter
you don’t want anything.
sometimes you die
sometimes you don’t.
as I drive past
the young man on the bus stop bench
I am comfortable in my automobile
I have money in two different banks
I own my own home
but he reminds me of my young self
and I want to help him
but I don’t know what to do.
today when I drove past again
he was gone
I suppose finally the world wasn’t
pleased with him being there.
the bench still sits there on the corner
advertising something.
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I can understand you wanting to share what you like, but - why not tell us why you think it's one of his best? Hmmm? C'mon, now - I know you'd like to give a melonheads' eyeview...
ReplyDeleteFucktard.
ReplyDeleteOne of my favorites because it shows Bukowski on the other side of Walking Through the Fire to find success, as well showing his more tender side.
I have been there myself in a way. The White Air, just plain nothingness, as if my true self was bleached away along with many other things, but yet at a point I just accepted it. To continue the metaphor, I felt like a t-shirt that came from a fun time, like say a concert, had been washed so many times the design was gone and the shirt became worn down to bare thread. Even the shirt itself loses it's structure and it hangs on you funny, like the shirt is tired and slouching. But yet there is a certain comfort in the thinned out soft cotton, and you hang onto it, despite that fact that you remember the good time, and having a good time is so far removed from possibility, that the reminder of that good time has very little impact, either for a negative comparison or a lift of remembering the good time. It simply is, it's as lifeless as you are.
Better?
And the last line cuts like a knife, because you know the world will keep moving on, with you or without you.
ReplyDeleteI accept the honorary title of Fucktard humbly, and would like to thank all of the little people for making it possible...
ReplyDeleteBut the poem, now, means more, doesn't it?, since we know why you love it.
So there...
Mebbe
ReplyDelete