a time to remember
at North Avenue 21 drunk tank you slept on the floor and at night
there was always some guy who would step on your face on his
way to the crapper
and then you would curse him good, set him straight, so that
he would know enough to either be more careful or to
just lay there and hold it.
there was a large hill in back dense with foliage
you could see it through the barred window
and a few of the guys after being released would not go back to
skid row, they’d just walk up into that green hill where
they lived like animals.
part of it was a campground and some lived out of the
trash cans while others trekked back to skid row for meals but then
returned
and they all sold their blood each week for
wine.
there must have been 18 or 20 of them up there and
they were more or less just as happy as corporate lawyers
stockbrokers or airline
pi lots.
civilization is divided into parts, like an orange, and when you
peel the skin off, pull the sections apart, chew it, the
final result is a mouthful of pale pulp which you can either
swallow or spit
out.
some just swallow it
like the guys down at North Avenue
21.
Otras obras de Charles Bukowski...
