War All the Time

Charles Bukowski

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061882067
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Poesía

"The Walt Whitman of Los Angeles."—Joyce Carol Oates, bestselling author

"He brought everybody down to earth, even the angels."—Leonard Cohen, songwriter

War All the Time is a selection of poetry from the early 1980s. Charles Bukowski shows that he is still as pure as ever but he has evolved into a slightly happier man that has found some fame and love. These poems show how he grapples with his past and future colliding.

Horsemeat

I

I park, get out, lock the car, it’s a perfect day, warm and

easy, I feel all right, I begin walking toward the track

entrance and a little fat guy joins me, he walks at my side,

I don’t know where he came from.

“hi,” he says, “how you doing?”

“o.k.,” I say.

he says, “I guess you don’t remember me. you’ve seen me before,

maybe two or three times.”

“maybe so,” I say, “I’m at the track every day.”

“I come maybe three or four times a month,” he says.

“with your wife?” I ask.

“oh no,” he says, “I never bring my wife.”

we walk along and I walk faster; he struggles to keep up.

“who you like in the first?” he asks.

I tell him that I haven’t gotten the Form yet.

“where do you sit?” he asks.

I tell him that I sit in a different place every time.

“that God-damned Gilligan,” he says, “is the worst jock

at the track, lost a bundle on him the other day. why

do they use him?”

I tell him Whittingham and Longden think he’s all

right.

“sure, they’re friends,” he answers. “I know something about

Gilligan. want to hear it?”

I tell him to forget it.

we are nearing the newspaper stands near the entrance

and I slant off toward the left as if I were going to buy

a paper.

“good luck,” I tell him and drift off.

he appears startled, his eyes go into shock; he reminds me

of some women who only feel secure when somebody’s thumb is

up their ass.

he looks about, spots a grey-haired old man with a

limp, rushes up, catches stride with the old guy and begins

talking to him…

II

Being alone has always been very necessary to me. At one time I was on a hot winning streak at the racetrack. The money just came to me. A certain basic simple system was working for me. The horses moved south and I walked off my job and followed them down to Del Mar.

It was a good life. I’d win each day at the track. I had a routine. After the track I’d stop off at the liquor store for my fifth of whiskey and my six-pack of beer and the cigars. Then I’d get back into the car and cruise the coast for a motel, park, carry in my stuff, shower, change clothes and then get my ass back into the car and cruise the coast again—this time for an eating place. And what I would look for was an eating place without people in it. (The worst, I know.) But I didn’t like crowds. I always found one. Went in and ordered.

So, this particular night, I found a place, went in, sat at the counter, ordered: porterhouse with french fries, beer. Everything was fine. The waitress didn’t bother me. I sucked at my beer, ordered another. Then the meal came. God damn, it looked good. I began. I had a few fine bites, then the door opened and this fellow came in. There were 14 empty stools at the counter. This fellow sat down next to me.

“Hi, Doris, how’s it going?”

“O.k., Eddie. How ya doing?”

“Fine.”

“What’ll ya have, Eddie?”

“Oh, just a coffee, I guess…”

Doris brought Eddie his coffee.

“I think the fuel pump on my car is going out…”

“Always some damn thing, huh Eddie?”

“Yeah, now my wife needs new plates, Doris.”

“You mean houseware?”

“I mean mouthware!”

“Oh, Eddie, ha, ha, ha!”

“Well,” Eddie said, “when it rains it pours!”

I picked up my plate and my beer, my fork, my knife, my spoon, my napkin, my ass and moved it all over to a far booth. I sat down and began again. As I did I watched Eddie and Doris. They were whispering. Then Doris looked at me:

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“Now,” I told her, “it is.”

III

a fat Mexican woman in front of me in line

lays down her last two dollars all in change:

quarters, dimes and nickles

as she calls the wrong number.

I walk up, bet twenty win and call the

wrong number also as

a fart of thunder erupts in the sky followed

by a distant light

small drops of rain begin their work and we

go out and watch the last race:

12 three-year-olds at a flat mile, non-winners

of two races

they break in a spill of color and chance

fight for position on the ...