Free The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills by Charles Bukowski Page A

another
              HANGOVER.
    he screamed for FORTYFIVE MINUTES! then became
    TERRIBLY
    exhausted, you couldn’t hear him, his voice BECAME
    a monotonous drone and he asked the audience:
    may I stop now?
    they applauded LOUDLY.
     
 
    Sunday, August 4th:
     
 
    the janitor had locked all the doors on the campus so
    we met at Hansen’s room and drank port wine. Denise and
    Carol came up but they were SAFE
    although everyone appeared a little sullen.
    I think it was being LOCKED OUT like that.
    later in the night Allen grew angry and slapped
    Bob. then Allen read his poetry again, it was
    good being there all together all of us.
    I have tried to take notes and hope you have
            APPRECIATED THEM.
    next summer I am sure we will be
                INVITED BACK
    and I look forward
        EAGERLY
                to these great American poets
    and their DISCUSSION of what makes POETRY GO, what it
    iS!!
    AnD To haVE tHem rEaD thEiR OWN WORKS OnCe
            AgAin.
     
     
    —Howard Peter, University of L.
August 5, 1969

one for Ging, with klux top
     
     
    I live among rats and roaches
    but there is this high-rise apt., a new one
    across from me, glimmering pool, lived in by very young
    people with new cars, mostly red or white cars,
    and I allow myself to look upon this scene as
    some type of miracle world
    not because it is possibly so
    but because it is easier to think this way,
    —why take more knives?—
    so today I sat here and I saw one young man
    sitting in his red car
    sucking his thumb and waiting
    as another young man, obviously his friend,
    talked to a young woman dressed in kind of long slim short
    pants, yes, and a black ill-fitting blouse,
    and she had on some kind of high-pointed hat, rather
    like the kukluxklan wear, and the other young man sucked, sat and
    sucked his thumb
    in the
    red car and
    behind them, through the glass door
    the other young people sat and sat and sat and sat
    around the blue pool,
    and the young woman was angry
    she was ugly anyhow and now she was very ugly
    but she must have had something to interest the young man
    and she said something violent and final
    (I couldn’t hear any of it)
    and walked off west, away from the young man and the building,
    and the young man was flushed in the face, seemingly more stunned
    than angry, and then they both sat in the car for a while,
    and then the other young man took his thumb out of his
    mouth, and started the red car, and then they were
    gone.
     
 
    and through my window and through the glass door
    I could see the other young people
    sitting sitting sitting
    around the blue pool. my miracle crowd, my future
    leaders.
     
 
    to make it round out, I decided that the night before
    the young man (not the one with the thumb) had tried
    to screw the ugly girl in the pointed hat while they were both
    drunk, and that the ugly girl in the pointed hat
    felt—for some reason—that this was a damned dirty trick.
    she acted bit parts in little theatre—was said to have talent—
    had a fairly wealthy father, and her name was Gig or Ging or
    something odd like that—and that was mainly why the boys wanted to
    screw her: because her first name was Gig or Ging or Aszpupu,
    and the boys wanted to say, very much wanted to say:
    “I balled with Ging last night.”
     
 
    all right, so having settled all that,
    I put on some coffee and rolled myself something
    calming.
     

communists
     
     
    we ran the women in a straight line down to the river
    clinging to the fear in their rice-stupid heads
    clinging to their infants
    mice-like sucklings breathing in the air at odds of
    one thousand to one;
    we shot the men as they kneeled in a circle,
    and the death of the men held almost no death,
    it was somehow like a movie film,
    men of spider arms and legs and a hunk of cloth
    to cover the sexual organ.
    men hardly born could hardly be killed
    and there they were down there now, finally dead,
    the sun straining on their faces of