Free Love is a Dog from Hell by Charles Bukowski Page A

two
    checks. “Jesus,” I’d say, “two checks.”
    and they were
    angry.
    some of them were working
    two jobs.
 
    the worst day
    it was raining very hard,
    I didn’t have a raincoat so
    I put on a very old coat I hadn’t worn for
    months and
    I walked in a little late
    while they were working.
    I looked in the coat for some
    cigarettes
    and found a 5 dollar bill
    in the side pocket:
    “hey, look,” I said, “I just found a 5 dollar
    bill I didn’t know I had, that’s
    funny.”
 
    “hey, man, knock off the
    shit!”
 
    “no, no, I’m serious , really, I remember
    wearing this coat when
    I got drunk at the
    bars. I’ve been rolled too often,
    I’ve got this fear…I take money out of
    my wallet and hide it all
    over me.”
 
    “sit down and get to
    work.”
 
    I reached into an inside pocket:
    “hey, look, here’s a TWENTY! God, here’s a
 
    TWENTY I never knew I
    had! I’m
    RICH!”
    “you’re not funny, son of
    a bitch…”
    “hey, my God, here’s ANOTHER
    twenty! too much, too too
    much…I knew I didn’t spend all that
    money that night. I thought I’d been
    rolled again…”
 
    I kept searching the
    coat. “hey! here’s a ten and
    here’s a fiver! my God…”
 
    “listen, I’m telling you to sit down
    and shut up …”
 
    “my God, I’m RICH…I don’t even need
    this job…”
 
    “man, sit down …”
    I found another ten after I sat down
    but I didn’t say
    anything.
    I could feel waves of hatred and
    I was confused,
    they believed I had
    plotted the whole thing
    just to make them
    feel bad. I didn’t want
    to. people who live on hot dogs and
    potato chips for
    3 days before payday
    feel bad
    enough.
    I sat down
    leaned forward and
    began to go to
    work.
 
    outside
    it continued to
    rain.

sitting in a sandwich joint
     
     
    my daughter is most
    glorious.
    we are eating a takeout
    snack in my car
    in Santa Monica.
    I say, “hey, kid,
    my life has been
    good, so good.”
    she looks at me.
    I put my head down
    on the steering wheel,
    shudder, then I
    kick the door open,
    put on a
    mock-puke.
    I straighten up.
    she laughs
    biting into her
    sandwich.
    I pick up four
    french fries
    put them into my mouth,
    chew them.
    it’s 5:30 p.m.
    and the cars run up
    and down past us.
    I sneak a look:
    we’ve got all the
    luck we need:
    her eyes are brilliant with the
    remainder of the
    day, and she’s
    grinning.

doom and siesta time
     
     
    my friend is worried about dying
 
    he lives in Frisco
    I live in L.A.
 
    he goes to the gym and
    works with the iron and hits
    the big bag.
 
    old age diminishes him.
 
    he can’t drink because of
    his liver.
 
    he can do
    50 pushups.
 
    he writes me
    letters
    telling me
    that I’m the only one
    who listens to him.
 
    sure, Hal, I answer him
    on a postcard.
 
    but I don’t want to pay
    all those gym fees.
 
    I go to bed
    with a liverwurst and
    onion sandwich at
    one p.m.
 
    after I eat I
    nap
    with the helicopters
    and vultures
    circling over my
    sagging mattress.

as crazy as I ever was
     
     
    drunk and writing poems
    at 3 a.m.
 
    what counts now
    is one more
    tight
    pussy
 
    before the light
    tilts out
 
    drunk and writing poems
    at 3:15 a.m.
 
    some people tell me that I’m
    famous.
 
    what am I doing alone
    drunk and writing poems at
    3:18 a.m.?
 
    I’m as crazy as I ever was
    they don’t understand
    that I haven’t stopped hanging out of 4th floor
    windows by my heels—
    I still do
    right now
    sitting here
 
    writing this down
    I am hanging by my heels
    floors up:
    68, 72, 101,
    the feeling is the
    same:
    relentless
    unheroic and
    necessary
 
    sitting here
    drunk and writing poems
    at 3:24 a.m.

sex
     
     
    I am driving down Wilton Avenue
    when this girl of about 15
    dressed in tight blue jeans
    that grip her behind like two hands
    steps out in front of my car
    I stop to let her cross the street
    and as I watch her contours waving
    she looks directly through my windshield
    at me
    with purple eyes
    and