Free Toca el piano borracho como un instrumento de percusión hasta que los dedos te empiecen a sangrar un poco by Charles Bukowski Page A

are
    next. they put us in long lines and
    he takes us
    quickly. “2 days or 40 dollars.” “2 days or 40
    dollars.” “2 days or 40 dollars.” “2 days or
    40 dollars.”
    there are 35 or
    40 of us.
    the courthouse is on San Fernando Road among the
    junkyards.
    when we go to the bailiff he
    tells us,
    “your bail will apply.”
    “what?”
    “your bail will apply.”
    the bail is $50. the court keeps the
    ten.
    we walk outside and get into our
    old automobiles.
    most of our automobiles look worse than
    the ones in the
    junkyards. some of us
    don’t have any
    automobiles. most of us are
    Mexicans and poor whites.
    the trainyards are across the
    street. the sun is up
    good.
    the judge has very
    smooth
    delicate
    skin. the judge has
    fat
    jowls.
    we walk and we drive away from the
    courthouse.
    justice.

claws of paradise
    wooden butterfly
    baking soda smile
    sawdust fly—
    I love my belly
    and the liquor store man
    calls me,
    “Mr. Schlitz.”
    the cashiers at the race track
    scream,
    “THE POET KNOWS!”
    when I cash my tickets.
    the ladies
    in and out of bed
    say they love me
    as I walk by with wet
    white feet.
    albatross with drunken eyes
    Popeye’s dirt-stained shorts
    bedbugs of Paris,
    I have cleared the barricades
    have mastered the
    automobile
    the hangover
    the tears
    but I know
    the final doom
    like any schoolboy viewing
    the cat being crushed
    by passing traffic.
    my skull has an inch and a
    half crack right at the
    dome.
    most of my teeth are
    in front. I get
    dizzy spells in supermarkets
    spit blood when I drink
    whiskey
    and become saddened to
    the point of
    grief
    when I think of all the
    good women I have known
    who have
    dissolved
    vanished
    over trivialities:
    trips to Pasadena,
    children’s picnics,
    toothpaste caps down
    the drain.
    there is nothing to do
    but drink
    play the horse
    bet on the poem
    as the young girls
    become women
    and the machineguns
    point toward me
    crouched
    behind walls thinner
    than eyelids.
    there’s no defense
    except all the errors
    made.
    meanwhile
    I take showers
    answer the phone
    boil eggs
    study motion and waste
    and feel as good
    as the next while
    walking in the sun.

the loner
    16 and one-half inch
    neck
    68 years old
    lifts weights
    body like a young
    boy (almost)
    kept his head
    shaved
    and drank port wine
    from half-gallon jugs
    kept the chain on the
    door
    windows boarded
    you had to give
    a special knock
    to get in
    he had brass knucks
    knives
    clubs
    guns
    he had a chest like a
    wrestler
    never lost his
    glasses
    never swore
    never looked for
    trouble
    never married after the death
    of his only
    wife
    hated
    cats
    roaches
    mice
    humans
    worked crossword
    puzzles
    kept up with the
    news
    that 16 and one-half inch
    neck
    for 68 he was
    something
    all those boards
    across the windows
    washed his own underwear
    and socks
    my friend Red took me up
    to meet him
    one night
    we talked a while
    together
    then we left
    Red asked, “what do you
    think?”
    I answered, “more afraid to die
    than the rest of us.”
    I haven’t seen either of them
    since.

the sandwich
    I walked down the street for a submarine
    sandwich
    and this guy pulled out of the driveway
    of The Institute of Sexual Education
    and almost ran over my toes
    with his bike;
    he had a black dirty beard
    eyes like a Russian pianist
    and the breath of an East Kansas City whore;
    it irritated me to be almost murdered by a
    fool in a sequin jacket;
    I looked upstairs and the girls sat in their chairs
    outside their doors
    dreaming old Greta Garbo movies;
    I put a half a buck into one of the paper racks
    and got the latest sex paper;
    then I went into the sandwich shop
    and ordered the submarine
    and a large coffee.
    they were all sitting in there talking about
    how to lose weight.
    I asked for a sideorder of
    french fries.
    the girls in the sex paper ads
    looked like girls in sex paper ads.
    they told me not to be lonely
    that they could fix me up:
    I could beat them with chains or whips
    or they