CHARLES BUKOWSKI
THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS
table of contents
1.
jam
two toughs
my German buddy
happy birthday
the telephone
begging
the feel of it
the greatest actor of our day
days like razors, nights full of rats
in and out of the dark
be kind
the man with the beautiful eyes
a strange day
Trollius and trellises
air and light and time and space
the eagle of the heart—
bright red car
moving toward the 21st century
the lady and the mountain lion
a laugh a minute
hello, Hamsun
death is smoking my cigars
hock shops
hell is a closed door
pulled down shade
before Aids
hunk of rock
poetry
dinner, 1933
such luck
flophouse
hand-outs
waiting
those mornings
everything you touch
car wash
the flashing of the odds
poetry contest
peace
the bluebird
2.
going out
the replacements
the genius
a poet in New York
no sale
this
now
in error
confession
mugged
the writer
they don’t eat like us
let me tell you
blasted apart with the first breath
Elvis lives
my buddy in valet parking at the racetrack:
see here, you
spark
the science of physiognomy
victory
Edward Sbragia
wandering in the cage
the pack
question and answer
fan letter
hold on, it’s a belly laugh
finished
zero
eyeless through space
tag up and hold
upon this time
Downtown Billy
8 count
ill
only one Cervantes
that I have known the dead
are you drinking?
“D”
in the bottom
the creative act
a suborder of naked buds
companion
you know and I know and thee know
3.
show biz
darkness & ice
the big ride
small cafe
washrag
sitting with the IBM
my buddy, the buddha
the interviewers
freaky time
the aliens
shock treatment
between races
splashing
darkling
Celine with cane and basket
no more, no less
the lost and the desperate
the bully
downers
get close enough and you can’t see
the beggars
the old horseplayer
post time
off and on
balloons
recognized
them and us
luck was not a lady
the editor
duck and forget it
snapshots at the track
x-idol
heat wave
we ain’t got no money, honey, but we got rain
crime and punishment
the soldier, his wife and the bum
Bonaparte’s Retreat
flat tire
oh, I was a ladies’ man!
inactive volcano
creative writing class
cool black air
the jackals
warm light
4.
Dinosauria, we
cut while shaving
a good job
last seat at the end
my uncle Jack
the area of pause
my first computer poem
Rossini, Mozart and Shostakovich
it’s a shame
what a writer
hangovers
they are everywhere
war
the idiot
this rejoinder
Hemingway never did this
surprise time again
young in New Orleans
the damnation of Buk
Charles the Lion-Hearted
within the dense overcast
corsage
classical music and me
transport
betrayed
torched-out
the word
shooting the moon in the eye
nirvana
an invitation
batting order:
the open canvas
in the shadow of the rose
About the Author
Other Books by Charles Bukowski
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
my wrists are rivers
my fingers are words
jam
that Harbor Freeway south through the downtown
area—I mean, it can simply become
unbelievable.
last Friday evening I was sitting there
motionless behind a wall of red taillights,
there wasn’t even first gear movement
as masses of exhaust fumes
greyed the evening air, engines overheated
and there was the smell of a clutch
burning out
somewhere—
it seemed to come from ahead of me—
from that long slow rise of freeway where
the cars were working
from first gear to neutral
again and again
and from neutral back to
first gear.
on the radio I heard the news
of that day
at least 6 times, I was
well versed in world
affairs.
the remainder of the stations played a
thin, sick music.
the classical stations refused to come in
clearly
and when they did
it was a stale repetition of standard and
tiresome works.
I turned the radio off.
a strange whirling began in my
head—it circled behind the forehead, clockwise, went past the ears and around to the
back of the head, then back to the forehead
and around
again.
I began to wonder, is this what happens
when one goes
mad?
I considered getting out of my car.
I was in the so-called fast
lane.
I could see myself out there
out of my car
leaning against the freeway divider,
arms folded.
then I would slide down to a sitting
position, putting my head between
my legs.
I stayed in the car, bit my tongue, turned
the radio back on, willed the whirling to
stop
as I wondered if any of the others had to
battled
against their
compulsions
as I did?
then the car ahead of me
MOVED
a foot, 2 feet, 3 feet!
I shifted to first gear…
there was MOVEMENT!
then I was back in neutral
BUT
we had moved from 7 to
ten feet.
hearing the world news for the
7th time,
it was still all bad
but all of us listening,
we could handle that too
because we knew
that there was nothing worse than
looking at
that same license plate
that same dumb head sticking up
from behind the headrest
in the car ahead of you
as time dissolved
as the temperature gauge leaned
more to the right
as the gas gauge leaned
more to the left
as we wondered
whose clutch was burning
out?
we were like some last, vast
final dinosaur
crawling feebly home somewhere,
somehow, maybe
to
die.
two toughs
at L.A. City College there were two toughs, me and Jed Anderson.
Anderson was one of the best running backs in the
history of the school, a real breakaway threat
anytime he got the football.
I was pretty tough physically but looked at sports
as a game for freaks.
I thought a bigger game was challenging those
who attempted to teach
us.
anyhow, Jed and I were the two biggest lights on
campus, he piled up his 60, 70 and 80 yard
runs in the night games
and during the days
slouched in my seat
I made up what I didn’t know
and what I did know
was so bad
many a teacher was made to
dance to it.
and one grand day
Jed and I
finally met.
it was at a little jukebox place
across from campus and
he was sitting with his
pals
and I was sitting with
mine.
“go on! go on! talk to him!”
my pals
urged.
I said, “fuck that gym
boy. I am one with
Nietzsche, let him come
over here!”
finally Jed got up to get a
pack of smokes from the
machine and one of my
friends asked,
“are you afraid of that
man?”
I got up and walked behind
Jed as he was reaching into the
machine
for his pack.
“hello, Jed,” I
said.
he turned: “hello,
Hank.”
then he reached into his
rear pocket,
pulled out a pint of
whiskey, handed it to
me.
I took a mighty hit,
handed it
back.
“Jed, what are you
going to do
after
L.A.C.C.?”
“I’m going to play
for Notre Dame.”
then he walked back
to his table
and I walked back
to mine.
“what’d he say? what’d
he say?”
“nothing much.”
anyhow, Jed never made it
to Notre Dame
and I never made it
anywhere
either—
the years just swept us
away
but there were others
who went
on, including one fellow
who became a famous
sports columnist
and I had to look at his
photo
for decades
in the newspaper
as I inherited those
cheap rooms
and those roaches
and those airless
dreary
nights.
but
I was still proud of that moment
back then
when Jed handed me
that pint
and
I drained
a third of it
with all the disciples
watching.
damn, there was no way
it seemed
we could ever
lose
but we did.
and it took me
3 or 4 decades to
move on just a
little.
and Jed,
if you are still here
tonight,
(I forgot to tell you
then)
here’s a thanks
for that drink.
my German buddy
tonight
drinking Singha
malt liquor from
Thailand
and listening to