a hard hard
face
under hard
hard
skin

but what a grand
body

and your red hair
so long
but when I
TOUCHED
it

it was
tougher than cat-gut
coarse as a screaming
crow

but what a
marvelous
body

part of the problem
was that
I thought you might be
able to
change into
something
else.

another part
is
that you’re hardly
worth
writing about
anymore

and being free of
that

I have a new
more reasonable
agony.

William Saroyan said, “I ruined my
life by marrying the same woman
twice.”

there will always be something
to ruin our lives,
William,
it all depends upon
what or which
finds us
first,

we are always
ripe and ready
to be
taken.

ruined lives are
normal
both for the wise
and
others.

it is only when
that life
ruined
becomes ours
we realize
then
that the suicides, the
drunkards, the mad, the
jailed, the dopers
and etc. etc.
are just as common
a part of existence
as the gladiola, the
rainbow
the
hurricane
and nothing
left
on the kitchen
shelf.

I found her room at the top of the
stairway.
she was alone.
“hello, Henry,” she said, then,
“you know, I hate this room, there’s
no window.”

I had a terrible hangover.
the smell was unbearable,
I felt as if I was going to
vomit.

“they operated on me two days ago,”
she said. “I felt better the next
day but now it’s the same, maybe
worse.”

“I’m sorry, mom.”

“you know, you were right, your father
is a terrible man.”

poor woman. a brutal husband and
an alcoholic son.

“excuse me, mom, I’ll be right
back …”

the smell had seeped into me,
my stomach was jumping.
I got out of the room
and walked halfway down the stairs,
sat there
holding onto the railing,
breathing the fresh
air.

the poor woman.

I kept breathing the air and
managed not to
vomit.

I got up and walked back up the
stairs and into the room.

“he had me committed to a mental
institution, did you know
that?”

“yes. I informed them
that they had the wrong person
in there.”

“you look sick, Henry, are you all
right?”

“I am sick today, mom, I’m going
to come back and see you
tomorrow.”

“all right, Henry …”

I got up, closed the door, then
ran down the stairs.
I got outside, to a rose
garden.

I let it all go into the rose
garden.

poor damned woman …

the next day I arrived with
flowers.
I went up the stairway to the
door.
there was a wreath on the
door.

I tried the door anyhow.
it was locked.

I walked down the stairway
through the rose garden
and out to the street
where my car was
parked.

there were two little girls
about 6 or 7 years old
walking home from school.

“pardon me, ladies, but would you
like some flowers?”

they just stopped and stared at
me.

“here,” I handed the bouquet to the
taller of the girls. “now, you
divide these, please give your
friend half of them.”

“thank you,” said the taller
girl, “they are very
beautiful.”

“yes, they are,” said the other
girl, “thank you very
much.”

they walked off down the street
and I got into my car,
it started, and
I drove back to my
place.

—from septuagenarian stew

I was fighting a small fight of my own which wasn’t leading

anywhere—but like a man with a bent spoon trying to dig through a

cement wall I knew that a small fight was better than quitting: it

kept

the heart alive.

Charles Bukowski - Septuagenerian Stew