I hung up the receiver and pulled the

bottle

toward me.

the fighter

Hemingway feels it in the grave

every time the bulls run through

the streets of

Pamplona

again

he sits up

the skeleton rattles

the skull wants a drink

the eyeholes want sunlight, action.

the young bulls are beautiful,

Ernest

and you were

too

no matter

what they say

now.

my worst rejection slip

came to me when I was living in

that court on DeLongpre.

it was from the editor of one

of the sex mags on

Melrose Avenue.

“listen, Bukowski, you are a

good writer but never

send us a story like that

again!

no man beds down with

that many women

in a day or in a night

and a day,

especially an ugly old

fart like you!

we’ve been delighted

with your previous

fiction

but

please, please,

please,

don’t lay the bullshit

on too thick,

the reader will

never believe

it

and we here

are insulted to

the god-damned

hilt with your

exaggerations!”

well, I reread the

story and found it

perfectly accurate

in the factual

sense.

I dropped it on the

floor and went in

and poured a

drink.

as I walked out

there was a

knock on the

door.

it was a young lady.

she stood there

looking

wild.

“what are you

doing?”

“nothing.”

“well, I’m taking

Nina to visit her father

and then I’m

coming right

back!”

“oh good, baby…”

then she turned

and ran to

her

car,

I heard it roar

off down the

street.

I slammed the

drink down and

then the

phone rang.

“hello,” I

said.

it was a female

voice.

“what are you

doing?”

“nothing.”

“are you drinking?”

“yes.”

“is there a woman

there with you?”

“no.”

“we were to have

dinner together

and you were

going to spend the

night.

do you

remember?”

“sure, baby,

I’ll be there at

seven.”

she hung

up.

I sat down with

my drink.

I finished it.

then I got up

and got another,

sat there.

there was a knock

on my door.

it was my landlady.

she was already

red-faced with

booze.

“o.k.,” she said,

“I’ve got twelve

quarts of

Eastside in

the refrigerator.

you comin’

down?”

“later…”

“you better come

down, you horny old son-of-a-bitch!”

“oh, I will…”

then she was

gone.

and I looked down

at the rejected

story

on the floor.

too bad,

the way people

thought:

that only handsome

young men

got all the

action.

and I didn’t even

want the

action.

it was getting between

me

and my

typewriter.

it’s true that there

were days

when nobody

bothered me.

then I sometimes

masturbated.

those were the days

when I got my

work done.

I picked the story up

and slipped it back

into the

envelope for the

time

being.

later on

I’d mail it off to

somebody with

more common

sense.

40,000

now

at the track today,

Saturday,

Father’s Day,

each paid admission is