life of the king
awaken at 11:30 a.m.
get into my chinos and a clean green shirt
open a Miller’s,
and nothing in the mailbox but the
Berkeley Tribe
which I don’t subscribe to,
and on KUSC there is organ music
something by Bach
and I leave the door open
stand on the porch
walk out front
hot damn
that air is good
and the sun like golden butter on my
body. no racetrack today, nothing but this
beastly and magic
leisure, rolled cigarette dangling
scratch my belly in the sun
as Paul Hindemith
rides by on a bicycle,
and down the street a lady in a
very red dress
bends down into a laundry basket
rises
hangs a sheet on a line,
bends again, rises, in all that red,
that red like snake skin
clinging moving flashing
hot damn
keep looking, and
she sees me
pauses bent over basket
clothespin in mouth
she rises with a pair of pink
pan ties
smiles around the
clothespin
waves to me.
what’s next? rape in the streets?
wave back,
go in,
sit down at the machine
by the window, and now it’s someone’s
violin concerto in D,
and a pretty black girl in very tight pants
walking a hound,
they stop outside my window,
look in;
she has on dark shades
and her mouth opens a little, then she and the dog
move on.
someone might have bombed cities for this or
sold apples in the
rain.
but whoever is responsible, today I wish to
thank him
all the
way.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
