Charles Bukowski
had it for a year, really put in
lot of
bedroom time, slept upright on
two pillows to keep from coughing,
all the blood drained from my head
and often I’d awaken to find myself
slipping sideways off the
bed.
since my TB was contagious I didn’t
have any visitors and the phone
stopped ringing
and that was the lucky
part.
 
during the day I tried TV and food,
neither of which went down very
well.
the soap operas and the talk shows
were a
daytime nightmare,
so for the lack of anything else
to do
watched the baseball
games
and led the Dodgers to a
pennant.
not much else for me to do
except take antibiotics and the cough
medicine.
also really saved putting
mileage on the car
and missed the hell out of
 
the old race
track.
you realize when you’re
plucked out of the mainstream that
doesn’t need you or
anybody else.
the birds don’t notice you’re gone,
the flowers don’t care,
the people out there don’t notice,
but the IRS,
the phone co.,
the gas and electric co.,
the DMV, etc.,
they keep in touch.
 
being very sick and being dead are
very much the same
in society’s
eye.
 
either way,
you might just as well
lay back and
enjoy it.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...



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