чарльз буковски

3 blacks

it’s midway through the card at the
track.
I am standing at a table,
getting my figures ready for the
next race.
I see them approaching,
coming down the
aisle.
the biggest one is
nearest me.
as he walks by
he gives me a bit of
elbow.
they keep walking on.
then the big one turns,
looks back
to see how I will react.
his face is blank as he
looks.
mine is blank.
he turns and walks on.
something about me bothered
him:
white skin.
brother, that’s just the way it
is.
you drive a car?
what color is it?
don’t blame the
car.

******

safe

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
by 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.
the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.
but I feel them drowning.
and I can’t save them.
they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.
but the price is
terrible.
sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.
the house is sad for the people living
there
and I am too
and we look at each other
and cars go up and down the
street,
boats cross the harbor
and the tall palms poke
at the sky
and tonight at 9 p.m.
the lights will go out,
and not only in that
house
and not only in this
city.
safe lives hiding,
almost
stopped,
the breathing of
bodies and little
else.

******

thanks to the computer

you write a bad poem and you just
press the “delete” key and watch the
lines vanish as if they had never been,
no ripping pages out of the typer,
balling them up and tossing them into the
wastebasket.
the older I get the more I delete.
I mean, if I see nothing in a work, what
will the reader see?
and the computer screen is a tough judge,
the words sit and look back at you,
with the typewriter you don’t see them
until you pull out the
page.
also, the keyboard on a computer is
more efficient than that on the
typer, with the computer the thoughts
leap more quickly from your mind to your
fingers, to the screen.
is this boring?
probably.
but I won’t delete it because it isn’t boring
me.
I am in love with THIS
MACHINE
see what it can do
now let’s get back to
work

******

the racetrack salutes you!

MILITARY DAY,
Sunday Sept. 8
FREE Grandstand Admission for
ALL Active Duty, Reserves, Retired,
Widows, Widowers & Dependents

Present I.D. at specially marked gates.

we hope you win
this time.

******

the two toughest

there’s this big guy comes to see me, he sits in
this big chair and starts smoking cigars
and I bring out the wine
and we pour it down.
the big guy gulps them down and I gulp
right along with him.
he doesn’t say much, he’s a stoic.
when other people visit they say, “Jesus, Hank,
what do you see in that guy?”
and I say, “hey, he’s my hero, every man has to have a
hero.”
the big guy just keeps lighting cigars and drinking.
he never even gets up to piss, he doesn’t have
to.
he doesn’t bother.
he smokes ten cigars a night and matches me
drink for drink.
he doesn’t blink.
I don’t either.
even when we talk about women we
agree.
it’s best when we’re alone because he never
talks to the other people.
and I never remember seeing him
leave.
in the morning his chair is there
and all the cigar stubs and
all the empty bottles but he’s
gone.
what I like best is he never disturbs the
image I have of him,
he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch and I’m a
tough son-of-a-bitch
and we meet about once
every 3 months and put on our
performance.
anything more than that would
wipe us
both
out.

******

the young

I watch them going up and down the hill on their
Suzukis, gunning them, ripping the night with
sound, the lights are bright, up and down
the hill they go, it’s only Thursday
night but any night will do, there’s hardly
any place to go, gang territory across Pacific
Avenue and more gangs on Gaffey Street, only
a few safe blocks to play with and they park
their bikes, stand around talking, there’s not
much money, they share joints and a few pills,
school tomorrow, maybe, hell, maybe not.
I stand out front watering a patch of lawn, maybe they
see me, and if they do, it doesn’t matter, I’m just
another old fart in a world of old farts, yet I
feel like walking over and saying, “come on,
let’s find something to do…” but I know better, I know
that they don’t know any more than I do and they
are probably more scared, I had my fling
ripping at the walls, I used to stand and beat
my hands against the bricks until they bled and
I kept punching but the world stayed there
unlikeable, monstrous, deadly.
I see them talking, then shut off the water, drag
the hose back into the yard, walk up the drive
and they are left standing in the world I passed on to them, they
are hopelessly screwed, castrated, denuded.
—the passing of the torch through the centuries,
they have it now.
Thursday night, nowhere to go.
Friday night. Saturday. Sunday. Monday.
etc.
the oldest young on earth.
Thursday night. Thursday night. Thursday
night.
“come on, let’s find something to do…”

******

12 minutes to post

as we stand there before the purple mountains
in our stupid clothing, we pause, look
about: nothing changes, it only congeals,
our lives crawl slowly, our companions depreciate
us.
then
we awaken a moment—
the animals are entering the track!
Quick’s Sister, Perfect Raj, Vive Le Torch,
Miss Leuschner, Keepin’ Peace, True To Be,
Lou’s Good Morning.
now, it’s good for us: the lightning flash
of hope, the laughter of the hidden gods.
we were never meant to be what we are or where
we are, we are looking for an escape, some music
from the sun, the girl we never found.
we are betting on the miracle again
there before the purple mountains
as the horses parade past
so much more beautiful than
our lives.

******

what can you do?

there is always somebody to chop wood
for you,
to speak of
God,
there is always somebody to kill the
meat,
to unplug the toilet,
there is always somebody to bury
you,
there are always animals with
beautiful eyes,
and there are always those
like Stanley leaning toward me
and saying in a soft voice,
“do you know that at the end of
his career Saroyan had other
people writing his stuff and that he
gave them twenty-five
percent?”
this was supposed to make me
feel original,
feel good because I was a starving
writer and the rejects were arriving
in record numbers.
it didn’t make me feel
good.
there is always somebody or something
to make
you feel worse.
there is always the dead dog on
the freeway.
there is always a fog full of
cutting
blades.
there is always Christ drunk in
the tavern with dirty
fingernails.

******

the weak

are always proclaiming that
they are now going to concentrate
on their work, which is usually
painting or writing.
it is known, of course, that they have
talent, they simply haven’t…well…
they haven’t truly been given a
chance.
there were matters that got
in the way: bad affairs, children,
jobs, illness, etc.
but now, that’s all put aside, they
proclaim.
they are going to concentrate
on their work
they are finally going to do it
now.
they have the talent.
now the world will see.
oh yes, it’s going to happen.
the proclaimers are everywhere.
they are always getting
ready.
they seldom begin.
and when they do
they quit easily.
it’s all a whim with
them.
they want fame.
they want it quickly
but they really have no urge
to do their work
except for fame
and to proclaim,
proclaim,
proclaim.

******

a woman, a
tire that’s flat, a
disease, a
desire: fears in front of you,
fears that hold so still
you can study them
like pieces on a
chessboard…
it’s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse…
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left …
The dread of life
is that swarm of trivialities
that can kill quicker than cancer
and which are always there -
license plates or taxes
or expired driver’s license,
or hiring or firing,
doing it or having it done to you, or
roaches or flies or a
broken hook on a
screen, or out of gas
or too much gas,
the sink’s stopped-up, the landlord’s drunk,
the president doesn’t care and the governor’s
crazy.
light switch broken, mattress like a
porcupine;
$105 for a tune-up, carburetor and fuel pump at
sears roebuck;
and the phone bill’s up and the market’s
down
and the toilet chain is
broken,
and the light has burned out -
the hall light, the front light, the back light,
the inner light; it’s
darker than hell
and twice as
expensive.
then there’s always crabs and ingrown toenails
and people who insist they’re
your friends;
there’s always that and worse;
leaky faucet, christ and christmas;
blue salami, 9 day rains,
50 cent avocados
and purple
liverwurst.

or making it
as a waitress at norm’s on the split shift,
or as an emptier of
bedpans,
or as a carwash or a busboy
or a stealer of old lady’s purses
leaving them screaming on the sidewalks
with broken arms at the age of 80.

suddenly
2 red lights in your rear view mirror
and blood in your
underwear;
toothache, and $979 for a bridge
$300 for a gold
tooth,
and china and russia and america, and
long hair and short hair and no
hair, and beards and no
faces, and plenty of zigzag but no
pot, except maybe one to piss in
and the other one around your
gut.

with each broken shoelace
out of one hundred broken shoelaces,
one man, one woman, one
thing
enters a
madhouse.

so be careful
when you
bend over.

******

bar stool

each day and each night were
about the same.
the bartender let me in at
5 a.m.
I had to listen to his stories
as he mopped the place up
and got things
ready
but the drinks were free
until 7 a.m. when the bar
opened.
the 7 a.m. crowd was a
good one,
I could usually work them
for some drinks
but by 8:15 a.m. there were
few patrons left.
I had to nurse my drinks
and wait.
I used the few coins I had
to keep the drinks slowly
arriving.
the painful time came
when I ran out of
coin.
the trick was to never
empty your glass.
it was a rule: as long as
you had something in
your glass you
stayed.
sometimes the time
really bludgeoned
me
and my damned
tongue was hanging
out too.
at noon a few
more would drift in,
they all knew
me.
I put on a good
late night
show—
wild sentences of
gibberish,
fist fights,
even a few
profound
statements,
and the times
I had money
I bought for
everybody.
I was the nut.
the good guy.
the bad
guy.
but in the daylight
hours I had
no zip.
those were the
hard hours.
I had to milk
those drab suckers
for
drinks.
one way or the other
I got them,
ran errands,
got a little
coin.
as the afternoon
went toward
evening
things began to
get better,
I got drunker,
more inventive,
more interesting,
it got into party
time,
good luck
time.
and the nights
were great.
drinks arrived
before me
and I had no
idea where they
had
come
from.
sometimes the
nights and the days
got mixed up.
I seemed to be
sitting in daylight
and then it was
dark all at once,
or it worked the
other way around,
it was dark
and in the next
moment
it was daylight.
I once asked the
bartender, “hey,
Jim, did you notice
that it was dark
and now the sun
is shining!
isn’t that strange?”
“no,” he answered,
“you went to your
room and then came
back again.”
at times I resented
my role.
the patrons were
hardly intellectual,
there was a lifeless
and satisfied deadness
about them
and yet I had to
depend upon their
whims.
I was on
that bar stool for
3 years from 5 a.m.
to 2 a.m.
I must have slept
while I drank.
I believe that I was
trying to kill myself
with drink and
back alley
brawls
but it wasn’t
working.
my greatest problem
were my toenails
which I never
cut
and which pained
me in my
shoes.
but eventually
they broke off
or the whole
nail would fall
off
leaving that
tender flesh
plus
a few split
lips,
mangled fingers,
lumps on the
knee
from falling,
and that was the
extent of
it.
I was evicted from
room after room
but always managed
to find
another.
it was as good a
life as I could
eke out.
I was avoiding
becoming ensnared
in a common
manner of
living.
I truly believed
that this was
important to me
when everything
else was
not.
and the one
stool was
mine.
the one down
at the end of
the
bar.
it was all that
I owned.
it was all that
I needed.
there was no
other man
I preferred to be
or no
other way that
I preferred.
I was at the
peak of my
courage,
sitting there
waiting for
that next
drink.
do you see
what I
mean?

******

16 Jap machine gun bullets

Norman
Jimmy
Max killed in World War II
while I hid in old roominghouses
in Philadelphia and San
Francisco
listening to
Mozart and Bach.
others fared differently:
with George it was a bad
liver. Dale died of misled
ambition. Nick went the common hard way of
cancer.
Harry of a
wife and 5 beautiful children.
Jimmy had it right—
trying to bring that bomber back to
England with the motors shot
out. Norman had it
right—
taking 3 hours to die from
16 Jap machine gun bullets.
now we’ve all got it quite right—
sitting around reading the
comic strips
drinking warm wine and
rolling smokes.
at 6 in the evening we charm our blood and
our manner
as we walk our faces through the
spiderwebs.
we’ve got it right
we’ve got it right—
the raven and the waves
the tired sunsets and the tired
people—
it takes a lifetime to die and
no time at
all.

******

madman

while
being
checked into the L.A. City jail (I
was still a bit drunk)
there was a crowd of prisoners waiting and
nobody noticed me smoking a cigarette
until some ash dropped off the end
then a cop screamed at me about how
“we kept this fucking place CLEAN!”
“oh,” I said, and then the cop said,
“wise fucker, huh?…O.K., now you
get it!”
and he pushed me into a back room and
locked the door behind
me.
there behind a thick yellow floor-to-ceiling
wire screen was this total
madman
he saw me and screamed
ran violently toward me
smashed into the wire screen
bounced back
rushed the wire again
grabbing it
shaking it
wanting to get through it
trying to get at me
trying to kill me
it was frightening
but I was drunk
found another cigarette
lit it trembling
pushed it through the wire
expecting to get my hand ripped
off
he took the smoke
put it to his lips
inhaled
exhaled
I lit up
also
and we stood there together
smoking.
that’s the way the cop
found us
when he opened the door
behind
me.
“son of a bitch,” he said, “that’s
beautiful, I wish I could let
you go for that.”
“I wish you could too,”
I told him.
“come on,” he
said.
as we walked out the door
the madman grabbed the wire again and
screamed
screamed
screamed
he rattled and banged the
wire
that thick wire
with the yellow paint flaking off
revealing the
pale grey paint
underneath.

******

society should realize…

you consult psychiatrists and philosophers
when things aren’t going well
and whores when they are.
the whores are there for young boys and old
men; to the young boys they say,
“don’t be frightened, honey, here I’ll put it
in for you.”
and for the old guys
they put on an act
like you’re really hooking it home.
society should realize the value of the
whore—I mean, those girls who really enjoy their
work—those who make it almost an
art form.
I’m thinking of the time
in a Mexican whorehouse
this gal with her little bowl and her rag
washing my dick,
and it got hard and she laughed and I
laughed and she
kissed it, gently and slowly, then she walked over and
spread out
on the bed
and I got on and we worked easily, no effort, no
tension, and some guy beat on the door and
yelled,
“Hey! what the hell’s going on in there?
Hurry it up!”
but it was like a Mahler symphony—you just don’t
rush
it.
when I finished and she came back, there was
the bowl and the rag again
and we both laughed; then she kissed it
gently and
slowly, and I got up and put my clothes back on and
walked out—
“Jesus, buddy, what the hell were ya doin’ in
there?”
“Fuckin’,” I told the gentleman
and walked down the hall and down the steps and stood
outside in the road and lit one of those
sweet Mexican cigarettes in the moonlight.
liberated and human again
for a mere $3, I
loved the night, Mexico and
myself.

******

on the bum

moving from city to city
I always had two pairs of
shoes,
my looking-for-work
shoes and my working
shoes.
my work shoes were
heavy and black
and stiff.
sometimes when I
first put them on
they were very
painful,
the toe
hardened and
twisted
but I’d get them
on
on a hangover
morning,
thinking, well,
here we go
again
working for
miserable wages
and expected to
be grateful
for that
(having been chosen
from a score of
applicants).
it was probably my
ugly and
honest
face.
putting on
those shoes
again
was always
another hard
beginning.
I
imagined myself
somehow
escaping
it all.
making it at the
gaming table
or in the
ring
or in the bed
of some rich
lady.
maybe I got
that notion from
living too long in
Los Angeles,
a place far too
close to
Hollywood.
but going down
those roominghouse
steps
with each new
beginning,
the stiff shoes
murdering my
feet,
stepping out into
the early
sun,
the sidewalk
there,
the city
there
and I was just one
more
common laborer,
one more
common
man,
the universe
sliding through
my head
and out my
ears,
the timecard waiting
to check me in
and out,
and afterwards
something to
drink and the
ladies from
hell.
work shoes
work shoes
work shoes
and me
inside of
them with
all the lights
turned
out.

******

total madness

all right, I know that you are tired of hearing
it
but how about this one last time?
all those tiny rooms in all those cities,
going from one city to another
from one cheap rented room to another
terrified and sickened of what people were.
it was the same any place and every place,
thousands and thousands of miles spent
looking out the window of a Greyhound bus,
listening to them talk, looking at them,
their heads, their ears, the way they walked.
these were strangers from somewhere else,
lifeless parallel perpendiculars,
they drove the blade through my gut,
even the lovely girls,
with guile of eye, with the lilt and magic of
their bodies
where only a down payment on a
mirage,
life’s cheap trick.
I went from room to room
from city to city,
hiding, looking, waiting…
for what?
for nothing but the
irresponsible and negative
desire
to at least
not be like
them
I loved those old rooms,
the worn rugs,
the walk down the hall
to the bathroom,
even the rats and the
mice and the roaches
were comrades…
and along the way
somehow I discovered
the classical composers.
I had an old record player.
and rather than eat
I used what funds I had
for cheap wine and
record albums.
and I rolled cigarettes,
smoked, drank,
listened to the music
in the dark.
I remember one particular
night
when Wagner really
lifted the ceiling off
my room
I got up
out of bed
joy-stricken,
I stood there and lifted
both arms toward the
ceiling
and I caught sight of
myself in the dresser
mirror
and there was nothing left
of me,
a skeleton of a man,
down from 200 pounds to
130,
with sunken
cheeks.
I saw this death skull
looking at me
and it was so
ridiculous and so lovely
that I started to laugh
and the thing in the mirror
laughed back
and it got
funnier and funnier
as I lifted my arms
higher toward the
ceiling.
and along with those old
rooms,
I was lucky,
I had gentle old landladies,
with pictures of
Christ on the stairways,
but they were always nice
in spite of that.
“Mr. Chinaski, your rent is
overdue, are you all
right?”
“oh, yes, thank you.”
“I hear your music playing,
night and day,
you sit in your room night
and day with the shades
pulled down…
are you all right?”
“I’m a writer.”
“a writer?”
“yes, I just sent something
to the New Yorker
I’m sure I’ll be hearing from
them any day now.”
somehow if you told them
you were a writer
they would put up with all
sorts of
excuses,
especially if you were
in your early
twenties.
(later on, it was a hard
sell
as I was to
find out.)
but I loved those
small rooms in all of
those cities with all
of those landladies
and Brahms
and Sibelius
and Shostakovich
and Ives
and Sir Edward Elgar
and the Chopin Etudes
and Borodin
Beethoven
Hayden
Handel
Moussorgsky,
etc.
now, somehow, after
decades of
those rooms
and half-assed barren
jobs
and after tossing out
literally 40 or 50
pounds of rejected
manuscripts
I still return to a
small room,
here,
to recount to you
once more
the wonder of
my madness
then.
the difference now
being
that while my writing hasn’t
changed that much,
my luck
has.
and
it was in those rooms
in the half light of
some 4 a.m.
a shrunken man on the
shelf of nowhere
was young enough to
then
remain young
forever.
rooms of
glory.

******

big night on the town

drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it’s night, you’re lost, where’s your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar’s sloppy wet, it soaks
one of your shirt
sleeves.
it’s a clip joint—the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bartender sneers.
you’ve got him worried, he doesn’t
know if you’re a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
it’s one a.m. in a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.
you leave Madame Death there.
you leave the sneering bartender
there.
you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Stars
where love died
laughing.

******

full circle

Sanford liked to play dirty
tricks like piss in milk bottles,
burn the legs off of spiders, torture
cats, put water in gas tanks, etc.
he was full of dirty
tricks.
we grew up together.
when World War II arrived he went into the
air force.
“the flyboys get all the pussy,” he
told me.
on his second mission over the English
Channel they
blasted his ass out of the
sky.
they never found him.
one more dirty trick in a dirty trick
world.

******

self-invited

well, strap my ass on backwards, phone China,
run the birds off the wire,
buy a painting of a red dove and remember
Herbert Hoover.
what I am trying to say is that 6 nights out of the
last 8 there have been visitors, all self-invited, and
like my wife says, “we don’t want to hurt their feelings.”
so we have sat and listened to them, some
famous and some not so, some fairly bright
and entertaining, some not so
but it all ends up as chatter, chatter, chatter, voices,
voices, voices, a polite heady whirl of sound and
there’s a loneliness there: they all want to be accepted
in one way or another,
they want to be listened to, and that’s understandable but
I am one of those human beings who would rather sit quietly
with my wife and 6 cats (or I like to sit upstairs alone
doing nothing).
the idea is that I am selfish and that people
diminish me; the longer I sit and listen to them
the more empty I feel but I don’t get
the idea that they feel empty, I feel
that they enjoy the sound from their
mouths.
and when they leave almost all make a little gesture
toward a future visit.
my wife is nice, makes them feel warm as they exit, she’s
a good soul, so good a soul that when, say, we eat out and
choose a table she takes a seat where she can “see the
people” and I take a seat where I can’t.
all right, so I was forged by the devil: all
humankind disinterests me and no, it’s not fear although
certain things about them are fearful, and it’s not
competition because I don’t want
anything that they want, it’s just that
in all those hours of
voices voices voices
I hear nothing either essentially kind or daring or noble,
and not the least bit worth all the time shot through
the head.
you can remember when you used to run them out into the
night instead of letting them wind themselves
down,
those with their lonely wish for company, and you are
ashamed of yourself for putting up with their mostly pure
crap
but otherwise your wife would say
“do you think that you are the only person living on
earth?”
you see, that’s where the devil’s got
me.
so I listen and they are
fulfilled.

******

mailbag

a schizophrenic
in Dallas
writes me about his
problems:
he
hears voices,
he’s
hooked on
Beckett,
also his shrink
makes him
sit too long
in the waiting
room.
he’s supported
by his
mother
and he follows
women’s
softball.
also he recently
won
2nd prize
in a chili
cook-off.
you ought to come
to Austin,
he writes,
you’d love
Austin.
I file his letter
in with the
other letters
from schizophrenics.
I’ve been to
Austin.

******

молодые поэты

благополучные молодые поэты
посылают мне свои сочинения,
обычно 3-4 коротеньких
стихотворения.
есть неплохие
но в них не хватает
фактуры безумия
и азарта
изобретательности
буйнопомешанного
или
пойманного в западню.

в них благополучие
и оно
смущает.

есть также стихи
Уличных Поэтов.
они аутсайдеры, поэтому
жизнь должна предоставлять им
какие-то преимущества,
их не должна
иссушать
претенциозность.
однако они полны
ею.
их опусы в основном
о том, что их не признают
что в игре строгие правила
что они поистине
великие
и так далее о том же самом
и почти ни слова ни о чем другом.

каждую неделю
я получаю одну-две
посылки
как от Уличных
так и от благополучных
поэтов.

снисходительность ни тут, ни там
не помогает.

в ответ на любой отклик
приходят новые стихи
да еще гигантские письма
с проклятиями в адрес Рока
будто никто кроме них
не имел с ним дела.

а если не ответишь, то пойдут письма
где тебя обвинят в бесчеловечности
ты тоже мол, против них,
и мать твою, парень
ты потерял это, ты никогда не имел этого
мать твою!

я не редактор.
я никогда не посылал свои сочинения
никому
кроме редактора.
я никогда не читал их
ни женам, ни подругам.

эти поэты очевидно
думают что тут политика
что тут своя игра
что несколько твоих слов
принесут им
признание и
известность.
вот
чего им надо.
вот чего.
только этого.
и ничего больше.

посылки со стихами
все приходят.
будь я редактор
я отверг бы почти все.

но я не редактор.

я тоже пишу стихи.

и когда некоторые
возвращаются
я их перечитываю
и понимаю, что
они должны были вернуться.

ведь надо только
врубиться
колотить по клавишам так
чтоб они кричали
пели и хохотали так
чтобы все узлы
развязались, так
чтобы явилось
это треклятое чудо
расцвечивая бумагу
а ты вскочил и блуждаешь по комнате
голова звенит,
сердце вот-вот вылетит
сквозь потолок.
высшая битва, последняя
битва, единственная битва.

пер. кирилл медведев

******

старики

я вижу стариков на ипподроме, они сгорбились, в руках палки
руки дрожат, я еду с ними по эскалатору.
мы не разговариваем.
я старше почти их всех, но странно, что им там еще светит?
они что, все еще хотят Пулитцеровскую премию получить
или девиц за груди пощупать?
чего же они не покончат со всем этим и не помрут?
я готов, черт возьми, подохнуть в любое время, я бы даже взял их с собой, двоих
или троих, или полдесятка, или десяток, с их белой кожей в морщинах и
вываливающимися челюстями
пусть они уйдут, и воздух очистится для новых молний
ради чего продолжать это?
ради ночного горшка в последней главе?
ради медсестры с телевизором в башке, бока да задница - ничего больше?
а зачем почитать стариков?
это какой-то наследственный идиотизм, способ сохранить пустоту
почти все прожили жизнь полную покорности и малодушия
почему бы не почитать молодых?
их жизнь только еще начинает
подгнивать
зачем вообще кого-то почитать?
ну, пожалуйста, только не стариков.

пусть будет война, на которой старики будут воевать друг с другом
а молодые - пить, мечтать и смеяться.

эти старые пердуны.
они ставят два доллара напоказ
на скачках.

это все равно, что мертвому переворачиваться в могиле
с тем чтобы устроиться поудобнее.

пер. кирилл медведев

******

отвратительно

вот эта большая пластмассовая штуковина, и голову тут есть куда класть
я ложусь на нее
и плыву по бассейну
созерцая недостижимое величие
деревьев в засоренном воздухе Калифорнии
я гребу выискивая разные виды
несколько моих кошек
сидят на краю бассейна
и смотрят.
они думают я с ума сошел.
может и правда.
они привыкли видеть меня
спящим или за компьютером -
тогда не обращают внимания.
но это?!
может, я в рыбу превратился?
или что?
я слезаю со своего плавучего ложа
и погружаюсь в голубую воду
выныриваю
плыву к кромке.
я вылезаю
и иду вытираться.
скоро обед и
бокс по телевизору
после - бутылка Каберне.
как хороша она, эта дорога в ад.

пер. кирилл медведев

******

бурлеск

мы с Джимми и Биллом
ходили туда каждое
воскресенье.
заведение находилось на Главной улице
снаружи висели фотографии
девиц.
время от времени они менялись.
иногда какая-нибудь
пропадала.
кроме того, можно было увидеть
девицу из хора
которая теперь
показывает стриптиз.
а можно было увидеть
девицу, которая раньше
показывала стриптиз,
а теперь снова вернулась
в хор, и ее место заняла
стриптизерша помоложе.
во всем этом было
что-то очень грустное.
еще грустнее было то, что во время шоу
старики начинали
мастурбировать.
парни никогда, а всегда
только старики, они в основном
сидели в первом ряду, который назывался
"Ложа Плешивых".

больше всего мне нравился комик,
в широких штанах на подтяжках
в больших ботинках
в фетровой шляпе с загнутыми
сзади и спереди
полями. он был великолепен,
мы покатывались со смеху над его
шутками
и
гримасами.

самая красивая стриптизерша обычно
выходила последней.
и время от времени она должна была
показывать все.
иногда бывали налеты.
(но мы их ни разу не застали)
однако через неделю после налета
театр открывался снова
с теми же самыми
стриптизершами.

однажды мы видели, как
самая красивая
стриптизерша
показала все.
мы не могли поверить своим глазам

- ты видел?

- видел!

- я тоже!


мы вышли на улицу
и все еще не могли
поверить

- спорим, они прикрываются!

- наверно, среди зрителей
не было полиции нравов.
когда хозяин в курсе
то он говорит стриптизерше
что все в порядке
и тогда она
показывает
пипку.

- а как же
их ловят?

- просто иногда приходит
тип из новой бригады
которого они не знают.

- пускай разрешат, чтоб
девицы показывали пипки,
кому от этого плохо?

- церковь не разрешает.

- блядская церковь.

мы брели по Главной Улице
и были юны
как никогда

пер. кирилл медведев

******

ненормальный

когда я учился в школе
учитель рассказал нам историю
про моряка
который заявил капитану:
- флаг? глаза б мои этого вашего флага
не видели!
- отлично, - сказали ему.
- ты получишь, чего хотел!
его посадили в трюм
парусника
и держали там
без кормежки
пока он не умер
так и не увидев
флага.

все были в ужасе
от этой истории
все были просто потрясены.
а вот я не был
особенно потрясен.
я сидел и думал,
да, не видеть флага
это конечно тяжело
а вот не видеть людей -
это было бы просто
великолепно.

все же я не поднял руку
и ничего
не сказал.
это означало бы, что
их я тоже не хочу
видеть.
так оно и было.

я смотрел прямо перед собой
на классную доску
она мне нравилась гораздо
больше чем любой
из них.

пер. кирилл медведев

ОГЛАВЛЕНИЕ