the Mexican dancer shook her fans at
me and her ass at me, I
didn’t ask her to and
my woman got mad and ran out of the cafe and
it began raining and you could hear it on the
roof and I didn’t have a job and I had 13 days left
on the rent.
sometimes when a woman runs out on you like
that you wonder if it’s not
economics, you can’t blame them—
if I had to get fucked I’d rather get fucked
by somebody with money.
we’re all scared but when you’re ugly and you
don’t have much left you get
strong, and I called the waiter over and I said,
I think I am going to turn this table over, I’m
bored, I’m insane, I need
action, call in your goon, I’ll piss on his
collarbone.
I got
thrown out swiftly. it was
raining. I picked myself up in the rain and
walked down the empty street
cotton candy sweet
dumb shit for sale, all the little stores locked
with 67 Woolworth locks.
I reached the end of the street in time
to see her get into the yellow cab with
another guy.
I fell down by a garbage can, stood up
and pissed against it, feeling sad and not
sad, knowing there was only so much they could do to
you, piss sliding down the corrugated
tin, the philosophers must have had something to
say about this. women. their luck against your
destiny. winner take Barcelona. next
bar.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
