On Love. Charles BukowskiЧитать онлайн книгу.
of us or it, the sad strictured palsy of glassed
and frozen and sterile madhouse background
enough to make you want to walk out into the sun again
and look around, but in the park and on the streets
the dead keep on moving through as if they were already
in a museum. maybe love is sex. maybe love is a bowl of
mush. maybe love is a radio shut off.
anyway, it was a party.
a week ago.
today I went to the track with roses in my eyes. dollars in
my
pocket. headlines in the alley. it’s over a hundred miles by
train,
one way. a party of drunks coming back, broke again, the
dream
shot again, bodies wobbling; yakking in the barcar and I’m
in there
too, drinking, scribbling what’s left of hope in the dim light,
the
barman was a Negro and I was white. bad fix. we made
it.
no party.
the rich newspapers keep talking about “The Negro
Revolution” and
“The Breakdown of the Negro Family.” the train hit town,
finally,
and I got rid of the 2 homosexuals who were buying me
drinks, and I
went to piss and make a phonecall and as I came through
the
entranceway to the Men’s crapper here were 2 Negroes at a
shoeshine
stand shining the shoes of whitemen and the whitemen let
them do
it.
I walked down to a Mexican bar
and had a few whiskeys and when I left the barmaid gave
me a
little slip of paper with her name, address and phone
number upon
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