Bluebird by Charles Bukowski
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that he's in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up?
you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die
and we sleep together like that with our secret pact
and it's nice enough to make a man weep,
but I don't weep, do you?
years ago, when i first lived in hollywood, when i was still the sort of girl who was half southern baptist ruffles and half rock and roll trouble-maker, i read a Lot of charles bukowski. if you don't know who that is, i'm not gonna tell you. it gets my skin up when someone doesn't know who he is. it hurts my feelings a little bit, when someone says Who is That? like his name is dirty. two of my friends at my book club this week didn't know who he was. it makes me laugh now but at the time i took it a little personal. like how the hell could these girls, these smart girls who read All the Time, not know hank? seriously? bukowski helped me through a crazy ride down a hellish time of my life. he's like an old friend. i think everybody should know him.
and just to be clear, that is Not me in the picture above
back then, i was about 24 years old, one day during lunch, when i was at work, i was sitting at my desk reading the days run away like wild horses over the hills or some other excellent book of his poetry. my boss came in and sat down in the chair next to my desk. he was an extremely smart fellow. an intellectual head and shoulders above the rest. i hadn't been working for him for all that long but i admired his quiet intelligence. he was big time to me.
he looked over at me and saw my book and said, What are You doing reading bukowski? i looked right back at him and said, why wouldn't i read bukowski? and then i realized he only knew me as the southern baptist sweet young girl in a skirt. he didn't know about the rotten, dark, black-hearted girl underneath the pink dimples and eyelash flutters. i still remember sitting there and talking to him about bukowski and going on from there to talk about other writers and movies and such. that was a lovely job just for that reason alone. the people there were not only interested in art but they lived artful lives. i miss that about that place. the crazy, the stress, i don't miss it so much. but the smart interesting people are much missed.
once i saw a documentary on bukowski way back before barfly came out. someone at that same office loaned it to me. it was fabulous. i remember a scene where hank is in a 7-11 or a liquor store, some such place. and someone wants to know who he is. he tells them his name. the person doesn't get it. he says, bukowski. buke, it rhymes with puke...he's perfect, that guy.
for me, living in l.a. and finding someone so soulful, so depraved, so lost, but found, who had lived in l.a. and wrote about the streets i loved, the madness and insanity, it helped me. it inspired me, it scared me, it shocked me, and it entertained me. i will always love charles bukowski. and if you don't know who he is then look him up already. read many of his poems before you give up. some of them are nasty and crazy. some of them are so deeply moving they will make you feel better. so keep trying different ones because if one isn't your sort you are sure to find one that is. he had a lot to say and there's a little bit of you in one of them.
Alone with Everyone
by Charles Bukowski
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.
