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