Free Love is a Dog from Hell by Charles Bukowski

Carlos
    Williams.
    and this one teaches.
    and that one teaches.
    and this one puts out textbooks on how to do it
    and speaks in a cruel and dominating voice.
 
    they are everywhere.
    everybody is a writer.
    and almost every writer is a poet.
    poets poets poets poets poets poets
    poets poets poets poets poets poets
 
    the next time the phone rings
    it will be a poet.
    the next person at the door
    will be a poet.
    this one teaches
    and that one lives with his mother
    and that one is writing the story of
    Ezra Pound.
    oh, brothers, we are the sickest and the
    lowest of the breed.

soul
     
     
    oh, how worried they are about my
    soul!
    I get letters
    the phone rings…
    “are you going to be all right?”
    they ask.
    “I’ll be all right,” I tell them.
    “I’ve seen so many go down the drain,”
    they tell me.
    “don’t worry about me,” I say.
 
    yet, they make me nervous.
    I go in and take a shower
    come out and squeeze a pimple on my
    nose.
    then I go into the kitchen and make
    a salami and ham sandwich.
    I used to live on candy bars.
    now I have imported German mustard
    for my sandwich. I might be in danger
    at that.
 
    the phone keeps ringing and the letters keep
    arriving.
 
    if you live in a closet with rats and
    eat dry bread
    they like you.
    you’re a genius
    then.
 
    or if you’re in the madhouse or
    the drunktank
    they call you a genius.
    or if you’re drunk and shouting
    obscenities and
    vomiting your life-guts on
    the floor
    you’re a genius.
 
    but get the rent paid up a month in
    advance
    put on a new pair of stockings
    go to the dentist
    make love to a healthy clean girl
    instead of a whore
    and you’ve lost your
    soul.
 
    I’m not interested enough to ask about
    their souls.
    I suppose I
    should.

a change of habit
     
     
    Shirley came to town with a broken leg
    and met the Chicano who smoked
    long slim cigars
    and they got a place together
    on Beacon street
    5th floor;
    the leg didn’t get in the way
    too much and
    they watched television together
    and Shirley cooked, on her
    crutches and all;
    there was a cat, Bogey,
    and they had some friends
    and talked about sports and Richard Nixon
    and how the hell to
    make it.
    it worked for some months,
    Shirley even got the cast off,
    and the Chicano, Manuel,
    got a job at the Biltmore,
    Shirley sewed all the buttons back on
    Manuel’s shirts, mended and matched his
    socks, then
    one day Manuel returned to the place, and
    she was gone—
    no argument, no note, just
    gone, all her clothes
    all her stuff, and
    Manuel sat by the window and looked out
    and didn’t make his job
    the next day or the
    next day or
    the day after, he
    didn’t phone in, he
    lost his job, got a
    ticket for parking, smoked
    four hundred and sixty cigarettes, got
    picked up for common drunk, bailed
    out, went
    to court and pleaded
    guilty.
 
    when the rent was up he
    moved from Beacon street, he
    left the cat and went to live with
    his brother and
    they’d get drunk
    every night
    and talk about how
    terrible
    life was.
 
    Manuel never again smoked
    long slim cigars
    because Shirley always said
    how
    handsome he looked
    when he did.

$$$$$$
     
     
    I’ve always had trouble with
    money.
    this one place I worked
    everybody ate hot dogs
    and potato chips
    in the company cafeteria for
    3 days before each
    payday.
    I wanted steaks,
    I even went to see the manager
    of the cafeteria and
    demanded that he serve
    steaks. he refused.
 
    I’d forget payday.
    I had a high rate of absenteeism and
    payday would arrive and everybody would
    start talking about
    it.
    “payday?” I’d say, “hell, is this
    payday? I forgot to pick up my
    last check…”
 
    “stop the bullshit, man…”
 
    “no, no, I mean it…”
 
    I’d jump up and go down to payroll
    and sure enough there’d be a
    check and I’d come back and show it
    to them. “Jesus Christ, I forgot all about
    it…”
 
    for some reason they’d get
    angry. then the payroll clerk would come
    around. I’d have