you with long hair, legs crossed high, sitting at the end of
the bar, you like a butcher knife against my throat
as the nightingale sings elsewhere while laughter
mingles with the roach’s hiss.
know you as
the piano player in the restaurant who plays badly,
his mouth a tiny cesspool and his eyes little wet rolls of
toilet paper.
you rode behind me on my bicycle as I pumped toward Venice as
boy, I knew you were there, even in that brisk wind I smelled
your
breath.
knew you in the love bed as you whispered lies of passion while
your
nails dug me into you.
saw you adored by crowds in Spain while pigtail boys with
swords
colored the sun for your glory.
saw you complete the circle of friend, enemy, celebrity and
stranger as the fox ran through the sun carrying its heart in its
mouth.
those madmen I fought in the back alleys of bars were
you.
you, yes, heard Plato’s last words.
not too many mornings ago I found my old cat in the yard,
dry tongue stuck out awry as if it had never belonged, eyes tangled,
eyelids soft yet, I lifted her, daylight shining upon my
fingers and her fur, my ignorant existence roaring against the
hedges and the flowers.
know you, you wait while the fountains gush and the scales
weigh,
you tiresome daughter-of-a-bitch, come on in, the door is
open.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
