Mockingbird Wish Me Luck Read Free

be a cabby
    we snatched him from his cab
    right off Madison, destroyed his home, his car, raped his
    12 year old daughter, it was beautiful, burned his wife with
    gasoline.
    look at his eyes
    begging mercy…
     

my landlady and my landlord
     
     
    56, she leans
    forward
    in the kitchen
    2:25 a.
    m.
    same red
    sweater
    holes in
    elbows
     
 
    cook him something to
    EAT
    he says
    from the
    same red
    face
     
 
    3 years ago
we broke down a tree
    fighting
after he caught me
    kissing
her.
     
 
    beer by the
quarts
    we drink
bad beer
by the
quarts
     
 
    she gets up
    and
    begins to
    fry
    something
     
 
    all night
    we sings songs
    songs from 1925 a.
    d. to
1939 a.
    d.
     
 
    we talk about
short skirts
Cadillacs the
Republican Administration
the depression
taxes
horses
Oklahoma
     
 
    here
    you son of a bitch,
    she says.
     
 
    drunk
I lean forward and
eat.
     

bad night
     
     
    Bartenders are human too
    and when he reached for the baseball bat
    the little Italian hit him in the face
    with a bottle
    and several whores screamed.
    I was just coming out
    of the men’s room
    when I saw the bartender
    get off the floor
    and open the cigar box
    to get the gun,
    and I turned around
    and went out back,
    and the Italian
    must have argued poorly
    because I heard the shot
    just as I got
    the car door open.
     
 
    I drove down the alley
    and turned East on 7th st.,
    and I hadn’t gone a block
    before a cop pulled me over.
     
 
    You trying to get killed?
    he asked. Turn your lights
    on.
     
 
    He was a big fat one and he
    kept pushing his helmet
    further and further
    on the back of his head.
     
 
    I took the ticket and then
    drove down to Union. I
    parked outside the Reno Hotel
    and went downstairs
    to Harry’s.
    It was quiet there, only
    a big redhead, bigger
    than the cop.
     
 
    She called me Honey
    and I ordered 2.
     

hogs in the sky
     
     
    the territory of the diamond and the territory of the
    cross and the territory of the spider and the territory of
    the butcher
    divided by the territory of you and me
    subtracted from the territory of mathematical
    reality
    multiplied by those tombstones in the
    moonlight
     
 
    just going on
    is a greater gut-miracle than the life-death cycle
    itself, I mean
    going on against uselessness—
    that’s different than living,
    say, the way a fly lives;
    the brain gives us enough light to know
    that living is only an artful sacrifice
    at best. at worst, it’s
    hogs in the sky.
     
 
    the territory of the darning needle
    the territory of the mustard jar
    the territory of mad dogs and love gone stale
     
 
    the territory of you and me
     
 
    each evening bent like the point of a thumb tack
    that will no longer stick
    in
    each kiss a hope of returning to the first kiss
    each fuck the same
    each person nailed against diminishing
    returns
    we are slaves to hopes that have run to
    garbage
    as old age
    arrives on schedule.
     
 
    the territory of meeting and leaving
    the territory of you and me
    death arrived on schedule on a
    Sunday afternoon, and,
    as always,
    it was easier than we thought
    it would be.
     

the white poets
     
     
    the white poets usually knock quite early
    and keep knocking and ringing
    ringing and knocking
    even though all the shades are down;
    finally I arise with my hangover
    figuring such persistency
    must mean good fortune, a prize of some
    sort—female or monetary,
    “aw right! aw right!” I shout
    looking for something to cover my ugly
    naked body. sometimes I must vomit first,
    then gargle; the gargle only makes me vomit again.
    I forget it—go to the door—
    “hello?”
    “you Bukowski?”
    “yeh. come in.”
     
 
    we sit and look at each other—
    he very vigorous and young—
    latest blooming clothes—
    all colors and silk—
    face like a weasel—
    “you don’t remember me?” he
    asks.
    “no.”
    “I was here before. you were rather short. you didn’t like my
    poems.”
    “there are plenty of reasons for not liking
    poems.”
    “try