between the shadow and the soul

he’s almost 80 and they went to
visit him the other
day. he was sitting in his chair
with a burlap rug over his
lap
and when they walked in
the first thing he said was
“Don’t touch my cock!”

he had a gallon jug of
zinfandel in his
refrigerator, had just gotten off
of
5 days of
tequila.

a new $600 piano was in the center of
the room,
he’d bought it for his
son.

he’s always phoning for me to come over
but when I do
he’s very dull. he agrees with
everything I say and
then he goes to
sleep.

Solid State Marty.
when I’m not there
he does everything:
sets fire to the couch
pisses on his belly
sings the National Anthem.

he gets call girls over and
squirts them with
seltzer water, he
rips the telephone wire out
of the wall

but before he does
he telephones
Paris
Madrid
Tokyo

he beats dogs
cats
people
with his
silver crutch

he tells stories about
how he was a
matador
a boxer
a pimp
a friend of Ernie’s
a friend of Picasso

but when I come over
he goes to sleep
upright in his chair
grey hair rumbling down over
the silent
dumb hawk face

his son starts talking
and then it’s time
for me
to go.

by Charles Bukowski, from Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until The Fingers Begin To Bleed a Bit (1979)