I like your books In the betting line the other day man behind me asked, are you Henry Chinaski? uh huh, I answered. I like your books, he went on. thanks, I answered. who do you like in this race? he asked. uh uh, I answered. I like the 4 horse, he told me. I made my bet and went back to my seat.... the next race I am standing in line and here is this same man standing behind me again. there are at least 50 lines at the windows but he has to find mine again. I think this race favors the closers, he said to the back of my neck. the track looks heavy. listen, I said, not looking around, its the kiss of death to talk about horses at the track... what kind of rule is that? he asked. God doesnt make rules... I turned around and looked at him: maybe not, but I do. after the next race I got in line, glanced behind me: he was not there: lost another reader. I lose 2 or 3 each week. fine. let em go back to Kafka. Cause And Effect the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them Are You Drinking? washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook out again I write from the bed as I did last year. will see the doctor, Monday. yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head- aches and my back hurts. are you drinking? he will ask. are you getting your exercise, your vitamins? I think that I am just ill with life, the same stale yet fluctuating factors. even at the track I watch the horses run by and it seems meaningless. I leave early after buying tickets on the remaining races. taking off? asks the motel clerk. yes, its boring, I tell him. If you think its boring out there, he tells me, you oughta be back here. so here I am propped up against my pillows again just an old guy just an old writer with a yellow notebook. something is walking across the floor toward me. oh, its just my cat this time. Freedom he drank wine all night of the 28th, and he kept thinking of her: the way she walked and talked and loved the way she told him things that seemed true but were not, and he knew the color of each of her dresses and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of each heel as well as the leg shaped by it. and she was out again and when he came home,and shed come back with that special stink again, and she did she came in at 3 a.m in the morning filthy like a dung eating swine and he took out a butchers knife and she screamed backing into the rooming house wall still pretty somehow in spite of loves reek and he finished the glass of wine. that yellow dress his favorite and she screamed again. and he took up the knife and unhooked his belt and tore away the cloth before her and cut off his balls. and carried them in his hands like apricots and flushed them down the toilet bowl and she kept screaming as the room became red GOD O GOD! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? and he sat there holding 3 towels between his legs no caring now whether she left or stayed wore yellow or green or anything at all. and one hand holding and one hand lifting he poured another wine Melancholia the history of melancholia includes all of us. Charles Bukowski (16 August 1920 - 9 Martie 1994)
Posted on: Sat, 08 Mar 2014 23:12:51 +0000
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