batting slump
the sun slides down through the shades.
have a pair of black shoes and a pair of
brown shoes.
can hardly remember the girls of my youth.
there is numb blood pulsing through the
falcon and the hyena and the pimp
and there’s no escaping this unreasonable
sorrow.
there’s crabgrass and razor wire and the snoring
of my cat.
there are lifeguards sitting in canvas-back chairs
with salt rotting under their toenails.
there’s the hunter with eyes like rose
petals.
sorrow, yes, it pulls at me
don’t know why.
avenues of despair slide into my ears.
the worms won’t sing.
the Babe swings again
missing a 3-and-2 pitch
twisting around himself
leaning over his
whiskey gut.
cows give milk
dentists pull teeth
thermometers work.
can sing the blues
doesn’t cost a dime and
when I lay down to night
pull up the covers
there’s the dark factor
there’s the unknown factor
there’s this manufactured
staggering
black
empty
space.
got to hit one out of here
pretty soon.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
