I always wanted to ball
Henry Miller, she said,
but by the time I got there
it was too late.
damn it, I said, you girls
always arrive too late.
I’ve already masturbated
twice today.
that wasn’t his problem,
she said. by the way,
how come you flog-off
so much?
it’s the space, I said,
all that space between
poems and stories, it’s
intolerable.
you should wait, she said,
you’re impatient.
what do you think of Celine?
I asked.
I wanted to ball him too.
dead now, I said.
dead now, she said.
care to hear a little
music? I asked.
might as well, she said.
I gave her Ives.
that’s all I had left
that night.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
