if you’re a man, Los Angeles is where you hang it up and
battle; or if you’re a woman, and you’ve got enough leg and
the rest, you sail it against a mountain backdrop so
when you grow grey you can hide in Beverly Hills
in a mansion so nobody can see how you’ve decayed.
so we moved here—and what do we come up against
except a religious maniac in the next shack who
drinks cheap wine and has visions and plays his radio
as loudly as possible, my god!
I know all the spirituals now!
I know how very much I have sinned and I realize I must die
and I’ve got to get ready...
but I could use a little sleep first
just a little sleep and peace of silence.
I open the window and there he is out on the lawn
dancing to a hymn
a spiritual
a whatever.
he has on a pair of red bathing trunks
he’s well-tanned and drunk on wine
but his movements are hard and awkward—
he’s too fat
a walnut-like man, distorted and shapeless at 55.
and he waves his arms in the sun and the birds fly up frightened
and then he whirls back into his doorway.
but the view from the street here is good—
there are Japanese and old women and young girls and
beggars.
we have large palms
plenty of birds
and the parking’s not bad...
but our religious maniac does not work
he’s too clever to work
and so we both lie around
listen to his radio
drink
and I wonder which of us will get to hell first—
him with his bible or me with my Racing Form
but if I’ve got to hear him down there I know I’m going to have to
have some help, and the next dance will be mine.
right now I wish I had something to sell so I could hide in a place
with walls twelve feet high
with moats
and high-yellow mamas.
but it looks like some long days and nights ahead,
as always.
at the least I can only hope for the weakening of a
radio tube,
and at the most for his death,
which we are both praying and
ready for.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
