Charles Bukowski

vacancy

sun-stroked women
without men
on a Santa Monica Monday;
the men are working or in jail
or insane;
one girl floats in a rubber suit,
waiting...
houses slide off the edges of cliffs
and down into the sea.
the bars are empty
the lobster eating houses are empty;
it’s a recession, they say,
the good days are
over.
you can’t tell an unemployed man
from an artist any more,
they all look alike
and the women look the same,
only a little more desperate.
 
we stop at a hippie hole
in Topanga Canyon...
and wait, wait, wait;
the whole area of the canyon and the beach
is listless
useless
VACANCY, it says, PEOPLE WANTED.
 
the wood has no fire
the sea is dirty
the hills are dry
 
the temples have no bells
love has no bed
 
sun-stroked women without men
 
one sailboat
 
life drowned.
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