Free New Poems Book Three by Charles Bukowski

at the race
    track
    and even when the bad moments
    arrive
    I handle them
    better.
    it’s as if there was a rocket
    inside of me
    getting ready to shoot out of
    the top of my
    head
    and when it does
    what’s left behind I
    won’t regret.

THE SOUND OF TYPEWRITERS
    we were both starving writers, Hatcher and I;
    he lived on the 2nd floor of the apartment
    house, right below me, and a young lady,
    Cissy, she lived on the first floor. she had just
    a fair mind but a great body and flowing blond hair and
    if you could ignore her unkind city face
    she was most of anyone’s good dream; anyhow,
    I suppose the sound of the typewriters
    ignited her curiosity or stirred
    something in her—she knocked at my door one
    day, we shared some wine and then she nodded
    at the bed and that was that.
    she knocked at my door, sporadically, after
    that
    but then sometimes I heard her knocking on
    Hatcher’s door
    and as I listened from above to their voices, the laughter,
    I had trouble typing, especially after it
    became silent down there.
    to keep myself typing, as if I was unconcerned,
    I copied items from the daily
    newspaper.
    Hatcher and I used to discuss Cissy.
    “you in love with her?” he’d ask.
    “fuck
no
! how about you?”
    “no
way
!” he’d answer. “look, if you’re
    in love with her, I’ll tell her not to
    come around my place
    anymore.”
    “hey, baby, I’ll do the same for you,”
    I said.
    “forget it,” he’d respond.
    I don’t know who got the most visits, I
    think it was just about
    even
    but we each realized after a while
    that Cissy liked to knock
    while the typewriter was working
    so both Hatcher and I did a great deal of extra
    typing.
    Hatcher got lucky with his writing first
    so he moved out of that dive and
    Cissy went with him; they moved
    into his new apartment
    together.
    after that I began getting phone calls
    from Hatcher:
    “Jesus, that whore has no class! she’s
never
    home!”
    “are you in love with her?”
    “hell no, man, you think I’d get hooked
    on trash like her?”
    Cissy would be listening on the extension
    and then she’d give Hatcher an explicit verbal
    retort.
    after a while Cissy moved out of Hatcher’s
    place;
    she still came around to see me occasionally
    but she was always with some different
    guy, all of them
    real low-life
    subnormals.
    I couldn’t understand the why of those visits;
    but no matter—I had somehow lost all
    interest.
    then I too got a little lucky and
    was able to move from the
    slums; I left the ex-landlord my
    new phone number
    in case of
    emergency.
    some time went by, then the ex-landlord
    phoned: “there’s a woman been coming
    by. her name is
    Cissy.
    she wants your new phone number and
    address, she’s very
    insistent.
    should I give it to
    her?”
    “no, please don’t.”
    “man, she’s a
number!
you mind if I
    date her?”
    “not at all, help
    yourself.”
    it’s strange how things like that
    are good and interesting
    for a while
    and it’s o.k. when they end and
    you can simply walk
    away.
    but the good parts were
    great and I’ll
    also always remember Cissy downstairs
    there at Hatcher’s
    and me up there madly
    typing
    weather reports,
    political columns
    and
    obituaries—
    I wore out many a good ribbon and
    worried myself
    stupid, so
    Cissy was memorable after
    all
    and that can’t be said
    about just
    anybody, you
    know?
    or
    don’t
    you
    know?

A FIGHT
    pretty boy was tiring
    his punches were wild
    his arms were weary
    and the old wino closed in and
    it became ugly,
    pretty boy dropped to his knees
    and the wino had him by the
    throat
    banging his head against the brick
    wall,
    pretty boy fell over
    as the wino paused
    landed a swift kick
    to the gential area
    then turned and walked back up
    the dark alley
    to where we stood watching.
    we parted to let him
    through
    and he walked past us
    turned
    looked back
    lit a cigarette
    and then moved on.
    when I got back in
    she was raging:
    “where the hell have you