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the table
    and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
    and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
    and I puff on the cigar like this
    and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this
    and take a deep breath
    and I begin to write
    Bukowski this is the life I say
    it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
    it's good to be in love
    But you don't know what it's like
    You don't know what it's like to be in love
    If you could see her you'd know what I mean
    She thought I'd come up here and get laid
    She just knew it
    She told me she knew it
    Shit I'm 51 years old and she's 25
    and we're in love and she's jealous
    Jesus it's beautiful
    she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here and
    got laid Now that's love for you What do any of you know about it Let me tell you something I've met men in jail who had more style than the people who hang around colleges
    and go to poetry readings
    They're bloodsuckers who come to see
    if the poet's socks are dirty
    or if he smells under the arms
    Believe me I won't disappoint em
    But I want you to remember this
    there's only one poet in this room tonight
    only one poet in this town tonight
    maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
    and that's me
    What do any of you know about life
    What do any o^ you know about anything
    Which of you here has been fired from a job
    or else has beaten up your broad
    or else has been beaten up by your broad
    I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
    They'd fire me then hire me back again
    I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
    and then got canned for stealing cookies
    I know what's it like I've been there
    I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
    This little broad she says
    Bukowski
    and I say What and she says
    I think you're full of shit
    and I say baby you understand me
    She's the only broad in the world
    man or woman
    I'd take that from
    But you don't know what love is
    They all came back to me in the end too
    every one of em came back
    except that one I told you about
    the one I planted
    We were together seven years
    We used to drink a lot
    I see a couple of typers in this room but
    I don't see any poets
    I'm not surprised
    You have to have been in love to write poetry
    and you don't know what it is to be in love
    that's your trouble
    Give me some of that stuff
    That's right no ice good
    That's good that's just fine
    So let's get this show on the road
    I know what I said but I'll have just one
    That tastes good
    Okay then let's go let's get this over with
    only afterwards don't anyone stand close
    to an open window
    THREE
    MORNING, THINKING OF EMPIRE
    We press our lips to the enameled rim of the cups
    and know this grease that floats
    over the coffee will one day stop our hearts.
    Eyes and fingers drop onto silverware
    that is not silverware. Outside the window, waves
    beat against the chipped walls of the old city.
    Your hands rise from the rough tablecloth
    as if to prophesy. Your lips tremble...
    I want to say to hell with the future.
    Our future lies deep in the afternoon.
    It is a narrow street with a cart and driver,
    a driver who looks at us and hesitates,
    then shakes his head. Meanwhile,
    I coolly crack the egg of a fine Leghorn chicken.
    Your eyes film. You turn from me and look across
    the rooftops at the sea. Even the flies are still.
    I crack the other egg.
    Surely we have diminished one another.
    THE BLUE STONES
    1/ 1 call stones blue it is because blue is the precise word, believe me.
    —FLAUBERT
    You are writing a love scene
    between Emma Bovary and Rodolphe Boulanger,
    but love has nothing to do with it.
    You are writing about sexual desire,
    that longing of one person to possess another
    whose ultimate aim is penetration.
    Love has nothing to do with it.
    You w r rite and write that scene
    until you arouse yourself,
    masturbate into a handkerchief.
    Still, you don't get up from the desk
    for hours. You go on writing that scene,
    writing about hunger, blind energy—
    the very nature of sex—
    a fiery