Cover

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

BONE PALACE BALLET

NEW POEMS

Dedication

for Dr. Ellis

table of contents

1.

God’s man

not normal

classical

the puking lady

depression kid

burlesque

first love

mountain

field exercises

what will the neighbors think?

full circle

2.

a place in Philly

the Kenyon Review and other matters

big night on the town

total madness

on the bum

society should realize…

madman

nazi

16 Jap machine gun bullets

bar stool

the mirror game

liar, liar, pants on fire!

the inspection

somewhere in Texas

city boy

the strange morning outside the bar

a $15 boy and a $1500 casket

rosary

the smirking dark

two crazies

a note on the masses

3.

Lord Byron

the weak

a tough time

some luck, somehow

art class

payoff

ding-dong

AFDC for you and me

I know you

bone palace ballet

oh

what can you do?

my friend, the parking lot attendant

last will and testament

12 minutes to post

in the center of the action

the fool

the rock

ah

room 106

in other words

the horseplayer

the big one

the parade

bum on the loose

going away

stag

late payment

2 horse collars

counsel

the fighter

my worst rejection slip

40,000

coffeeshop

poetry readings

4.

journey to the end

upon reading a critical review

the beautiful lady

black

my style

dead

a re-evaluation

snake-eyes

our world

how to get rid of the purists

a curious thing

the finger

don’t forget

last call

undecent

one of those

candy-ass

the word

please

good night, sweet prince

Dreiser wasn’t so hot either

cruising

the way it is

a final word on no final word

each man’s hell is different

the powers that be

clever

the poem

my mail

walking with the dead

up through the night

the fool dines out

hey, hey, hey

band-aid

the dangling carrot

preparation

freeway

5.

the new homeless

the mail

killing life

wait, it will find us

the x-factor

evaluation

the young

no return address

yes sirree!

snapshot (1985)

finished?

the voice of Chinaski

quotable

interview

the lady who looks forever young

an answer

a model

my companion

the barometer

the rivers

dark, and darker

the room

the two toughest

the darkening light

those good people

horse fly

night cap

action

playtime

poem for my 71st birthday

slow night

the racetrack salutes you!

alone

the joke

Glasgow

owl

Dostoevsky

my computer

thanks to the computer

safe

3 blacks

life like a big tender glove

the old guy in the piano bar

nights and years

quiet in a quiet night

a little cafe on 6th street

death in the modern age

too hot

the last song

reunion

disgusting

Bach, come back

the modern life

mailbag

self-invited

old

the young poets

Belfast

the dream

returning to an old love

cool fur

old?

a problem

taken

welcome darkness

Bach

great jazz

a moment

wondrous

fact

there

About the Author

By Charles Bukowski

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

AS YOUNG AS WE WERE EVER GOING TO GET

God’s man

we were 10 or 11 years old

when we went to see the

priest.

we knocked.

a fat, frumpy woman

answered the door.

“yes?” she asked.

“we want to see the

priest,” one of us

said.

I think it was Frank

who said

it.

“Father,” the woman

turned her head,

“some boys want to

see you.”

“tell them to come

in,” said the

priest.

“follow me,” said the

fat, frumpy lady.

we followed her.

the priest was in his

study.

he was behind his

desk.

he pushed some papers

aside.

“yes, boys?”

the lady left the

room.

“well,” I said.

“well,” said Frank.

“yes, boys, go ahead…”

“well,” said Frank, “we

wondered if God was

really there.”

the Father smiled.

“but, of course, He

is.”

“but where is He?”

I asked.

“haven’t you boys

studied your catechism?

God is Everywhere.”

“oh,” said Frank.

“thank you, Father,

we just wanted to

know,” I said.

“it’s quite all right,

boys, I’m glad you

asked.”

“thank you, Father,”

said Frank.

we both did little

bows, then

turned

and walked out of

the room.

the fat, frumpy lady

was waiting.

she led us down the

hall and to the

door.

we walked along the

street.

“I wonder if he’s

fucking her?” Frank

asked.

I looked around for God,

then answered,

“of course, he isn’t.”

“but what does he do

when he gets

excited?”

asked Frank.

“he probably prays,”

I said.

“it’s not the same

thing,” said Frank.

“he has God,” I said,

“he doesn’t need

that.”

“I think he’s fucking

her,” said Frank.

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.

why don’t we go back

and ask him?”

“you go back and ask

him,” I said, “you’re

the one who’s

curious.”

“I’m afraid to,”

said Frank.

“you’re afraid of God,”

I said.

“well, aren’t you?”

he asked.

“sure.”

we stopped then at a

red light, waiting for

traffic.

neither of us had been

to Mass for

months.

it was boring.

it was more fun

talking to the

priest.

the light changed and

we crossed

over.

not normal

when I was in grammar school

our teacher told us a story

about a sailor

who told the captain,

“the flag? I hope that I never

see the flag again!”

“very well,” he was told,

“you will get your

wish!”

and they put him in the

hold of the sailing ship

and kept him there,

sending down his

food

and he died down there

without ever seeing the

flag again.

it was a real horror

story for the other children,

very

effective.

but it wasn’t quite

as effective with

me.

I sat there thinking,

well, it’s too bad

about not seeing the

flag

but the best part was

not having to see the

other people.

I didn’t raise my hand to

say anything about that,

though.

that would mean that

I didn’t want to see them

either.

which was true.

I looked straight forward

at the blackboard

which looked far better

than

any of

them.

classical

our English teacher in Jr. High,

Mrs. Gredis, didn’t sit behind

her desk, she kept the front

desk empty and she sat on

the top of the front desk

and crossed her legs high and

we saw those long silken

legs, those magical flanks,

that shining warm flesh as she

twisted her ankles and recrossed

her legs with those

black high-heeled shoes and

spoke of Hawthorne and

Melville and Poe and others.

we boys didn’t hear a word

but English was our favorite

subject and we never spoke

badly of Mrs. Gredis, we didn’t

even discuss her among ourselves,

we just sat in that

class and looked at Mrs. Gredis

and we knew that our mothers

were not like that or the girls

in the class were not like that

or even the women we saw

on the street were not like that.

nobody was like Mrs. Gredis

and Mrs. Gredis knew that too,

sitting there on that front desk,

perched in front of 20 fourteen-year-old

boys who would never

forget her

through the wars and the years,

never a lady like that

watching us as she talked,

watching us looking at her,

there was laughter in her eyes,

she smiled at us,

crossed and recrossed her legs

again and again,

the skirt slipping, inching

delicately higher and higher

as she spoke of Hawthorne and

Poe and Melville and more

until the bell rang

ending the class,

the fastest hour of our day.

thank you, Mrs. Gredis, for that

most marvelous

education, you made learning

more than

easy, thank you, Mrs.

Gredis, thank

you.

the puking lady

we were around 14, Baldy

Norman and myself.

we were sitting in the neighborhood

park around ten p.m.

drinking stolen beer.

then we saw a car drive up to the

curb.

the door opened and a lady

leaned out and vomited into

the street.

she cut loose a good

load.

she sat awhile.

then she got out of her

car

and walked into the

park.

she weaved a

bit.

“she’s drunk,” said

Norman, “let’s fuck

her!”

“o.k.,” I said.

“o.k.,” said Baldy.

she was moving

through the park

walking along

unsteadily.

she was

heavy but

young,

good breasts,

nice legs,

she wobbled on

her high heels.

“I’ll get her

good,” said Baldy.

“I’ll get her good!”

said Norman.

then she saw us

sitting on the

bench.

“oh,” she said.

she moved closer,

staring.

“oh, you’re just nice

young boys…”

we didn’t like that.

“how about a drink,

baby?” Norman

asked.

“oh no, I’ve had

too much to drink,

I feel awful, I’ve

had a fight with my

boyfriend…”

she stood weaving

in the moonlight.

“what’s he got I don’t

have?” asked

Norman.

“don’t get fresh!”

“come here, baby,

I got something I want

to show you,”

said Baldy.

“I’m leaving,” she

said and began

walking off.

Baldy jumped up

(he was half drunk)

and followed

her.

“I got something

for you, baby!”

the lady began

running.

Baldy ran after

her.

when he attempted

to tackle her,

he missed, bounced

off her large

buttocks and fell

to the

grass.

the lady ran to

her car,

started it and

gunned off down

the street.

Baldy came walking

back toward

us.

“shit, that whore!”

he sat down with us

on the bench,

picked up his beer

can and had a

mighty slug.

“she wanted it,

she wanted it

bad,” he said.

“you’ve got guts,

Baldy,” I said.

“think she’ll come

back?” Norman

asked.

“sure,” said Baldy,

“she wants this

turkey neck I

got.”

I don’t think any of

us thought she would

be back

but we sat there

drinking the beer

and

waiting.

we were all

virgins.

but we felt very

powerful then,

sitting there smoking

cigarettes,

emptying cans of

beer.

later we would all

go home and

masturbate,

thinking about that

woman in the

park,

kissing that whiskey mouth,

her legs high in the

moonlight,

the park fountain

spewing its

water

as our parents

slept in the other

bedroom,

tired of it

all.

depression kid

I never had money but I did have a

bike

and there was little to do in the

summer but ride my bike to the

beach and back.

it was a bloody-ass haul from L.A. to

Venice

but there was nothing else.

one thing, it really built up my

legs.

I was 14 years old and I had the

most powerful legs in the

Southland, maybe.

the thing that made the

ride more exciting was to

attempt to shorten the time

it took to make the

trip.

each time I broke my own

record I’d go for a new

one.

I pedaled faster and

faster.

and that was all right

except one sunny day while

I was really pumping

along

this guy in a

red sports car

screamed at me,

“Hey, kid, watch where

the fuck you’re going!”

I looked over and there

was this old guy in a late

model car,

smoking a cigar

and he had a young

blonde with him.

her long hair was blowing

in the wind.

“Up your ass!” I yelled

back.

he slowed his car down

as I pumped alongside.

he looked over at me

and said, “Would you

mind repeating

that?”

I repeated that.

the girl with her hair

blowing in the wind

looked at him and

laughed.

“I’ve got a good mind to

park

and beat the crap

out of you!”

“Park it!

Park it!”

I yelled.

he roared ahead

and parked at the

curb.

I parked my bike

and walked toward

him.

I had no fear.

I felt great.

I walked up to the car.

he looked at me

from the car.

he didn’t get

out.

the young girl was

saying something

to him.

suddenly he

started the car

and pulled

away.

he took a right at

the corner.

I walked back to my

bike.

I got on and started

pedaling.

then he was back.

he’d circled the block.

I saw his face as he looked

at me.

I’d seldom seen such

hatred.

then he was gone

down the boulevard

out of sight with his young

girl.

I pedaled along.

I was no longer in a hurry.

to hell with the record.

I had called the guy’s

card and

the girl with the long

hair was thinking of

me.

I had become a

man.

burlesque

Jimmy, Bill and I went every

Sunday.

the place was on Main Street

with photos of the girls posted

outside.

the girls weren’t always the

same.

sometimes one of them

would leave.

then you’d see a girl who

had been in the chorus

line,

she’d be up there

stripping.

or you’d see a girl who

had been stripping

and she’d be back in the

chorus line,

a younger stripper having

replaced her.

there was something sad

about it all.

and it got worse

during the show,

some of

the old guys jerking

off.

the young guys never

jerked off,

it was always the old

guys,

most of them sat in

the first row

which was called

“Bald-headed

Row.”

I liked the comedian

best, he was dressed in

floppy clothes, suspenders,

big shoes,

felt hat turned up in front

and back.

he was really good,

we laughed at his jokes

and antics.

the most beautiful stripper always

came on last.

and once in a while

she would show

everything.

sometimes the show was

raided.

(we were never there

when it was raided)

but when the theatre was raided

it always opened up again a

week later with the same

strippers.

we were there one time when

the most beautiful stripper showed

everything.

we couldn’t believe

it.

“did you see it?”

“I saw it!”

“I saw it too!”

we walked out into the

street in

disbelief.

“I’ll bet they close the

place down!”

“maybe there wasn’t a

vice cop in the

audience.

sometimes

the manager

knows this and

he tells the stripper

it’s safe

and then

she shows her

pussy.”

“then how come they

sometimes

get caught?”

“that’s because sometimes

there’s a new vice squad guy there

they don’t know.”

“they ought to let women

show their pussies,

what harm does it

do?”

“the church is against

it.”

“fuck the church.”

we walked along

Main Street

as young as we were

ever going to

get.

first love

at one time

when I was 16

a few writers gave me

my only hope and

chance.

my father disliked

books and

my mother disliked

books (because my father

disliked books)

especially those I brought back

from the library:

D. H. Lawrence

Dostoevsky

Turgenev

Gorky

A. Huxley

Sinclair Lewis

others.

I had my own bedroom

but at 8 p.m.

we were all supposed to go to sleep:

“Early to bed and early to rise

makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,”

my father would say.

“LIGHTS OUT!” he would shout.

then I would take the bed lamp

place it under the covers

and with the heat and hidden light

I would continue to read:

Ibsen

Shakespeare

Chekov

Jeffers

Thurber

Conrad Aiken

others.

they gave me a chance and some hope

in a place of no chance

no hope, no feeling.

I worked for it.

it got hot under the covers.

sometimes the sheets would begin to smoke

then I’d switch the lamp off,

hold it outside to

cool off.

without those books

I’m not quite sure

how I would have turned

out:

raving; the

murderer of the father;

idiocy;

hopelessness.

when my father shouted

“LIGHTS OUT!”

I’m sure he feared

the well-written word

immortalized

forever

in our best and

most interesting

literature.

and it was there

for me

close to me

under the covers

more woman than woman

more man than man.

I had it all

and

I took it.

mountain

in high school the classes were arranged alphabetically and Burns

was always seated behind me.

Burns: largest lad in the class of ’39 but all of it was

fat.

he was a gross fat fart.

he was there on my neck, my back.

I could hear his wheezing.

I could hear him shifting his flesh about.

it was hell.

and worst of all the dumb fuck thought he was

clever.

always up to some trick.

like tapping me on the back, handing me a note,

whispering, “it’s from Mary Lou…she said to pass it

to you…”

“big boy,” said the note, “I want to be with you so bad! I can’t

take my eyes off you!”

then he’d poke me in the back, “hey, hey, she wants you!”

I’d ignore him.

“hey, Hank, what did the priest say when he saw birdshit in

his popcorn?”

“hey, Hank…”

on top of that he had body odor.

he always wore the same heavy green sweater,

even on the hottest day.

after each class he’d attempt to exit with me, follow me

down the hall.

“hey, Hank, wait a minute…”

he was slow, he had huge feet in square-toed black

shoes. they often banged together and he’d

stumble as he walked.

he was lonely but somehow I couldn’t embrace his loneliness,

he made me feel physically and mentally

ill.

I had him hanging on my neck for two years.

then one day he poked me in the back: “hey, this one’s

from Caroline…”

I opened the note:

“Henry, you are the yummy yummy man of my

dreams!”

I turned in my seat and looked at him.

he wore round glasses with thick rims.

his red wet lips were twisted into an asinine

grin.

I said, “listen, Burns, if you ever touch me or

speak to me or even look at me again, I promise I am

going to kill you!”

Mrs. Anderson, the English teacher then said for

all to hear, “Mr. Chinaski, I’ll see you after class.”

afterwards she looked up at me from her

desk.

“I’ve watched that horseplay all term long. what do you

have to say about it?”

I didn’t answer.

“Mr. Chinaski, I am going to give you an ‘F’ in English.”

“all right…”

“you can go now.”

I didn’t attend English class after that but I saw Burns in

my other classes and since he didn’t touch me or

speak to me and since I never saw him look at me, I

didn’t have to kill him.

all I continued to hear was his wheezing.

and worse, I began to feel guilty as if I had committed a

hideous

wrong.

I felt as if I had locked him up in some terrible way, in some

dark and lonely place.

but I left him there, alone.

at my back, on my neck.

Class of Summer

’39.

field exercises

is what they called them in the

R.O.T.C.

in the hills and fields on the

hottest summer days,

the Reds vs. Blues,

we had rifles but no bullets

and the officers had wooden sabers

and we’d run forward and

dive on our bellies,

take cover behind brush

while the general stood on the

hill,

he would be the final

judge as to who

won.

they were teaching us

how to kill each

other.

but the funniest thing was

when the opposing sides

happened to come upon

one another

unexpectedly,

the Reds and the Blues

(what told us apart were

the colored ribbons on

our rifles).

but I had long ago

torn mine off,

and we closed in

upon each other, got

excited,

began using rifle

butts

and the officers swung

their sabers about

each claiming victory

and there were bloody

noses, fractured skulls.

one broken arm

and I sat under a

tree watching it

all

as high on the

hill

the general stood

looking through his

dusty

binoculars.

he was senile

and drooled

little goblets out of

each side of his

mouth.

Los Angeles, Calif.,

summer 1938.

Saturday.

death had a little

black moustache

and he waited for

us

and many of us

went.

what will the neighbors think?

I think that was the question asked most of me

by my parents.

of course, I didn’t really care what the

neighbors thought.

I felt sorry for the neighbors, those frightened

people peeking from behind their

curtains.

the whole neighborhood was watching

itself

and in the 1930s there wasn’t much else to

watch.

except me coming in drunk late at

night.

“this is going to kill your mother,”

my father told me,

“and besides what will the

neighbors think?”

me, I thought I was doing very well.

one way or the other

I managed to get drunk

without having any

money at all.

a trick that would stand me in good

stead

later in my life.

to make things worse for my poor

parents

I began to write letters to the

editor of one of the large

newspapers,

most of which were published

and all of which

backed unpopular causes.

“what will the neighbors think?”

my parents asked

me.

but the letters brought interesting

results—hate letters, including

death threats through the

mails.

it also brought me into contact

with some weird

people who believed that I

meant what I had written in

those letters.

there were secret meetings

in cellars and attics,

there were guns, pacts,

plans,

speeches.

those were also

places where I scrounged up

free drinks.

most of these meetings

were attended by right-wingers,

young guys between the ages

of 17 and 23.

“we don’t want blacks fucking

our women!

they must die!”

unfortunately

I wasn’t fucking any

women myself.

all the meetings began by standing

and saluting the

flag

which I considered pretty

damned

juvenile.

but most of these young men

were from well-to-do

families

and I drank with some of

them afterwards.

I drank as much as I could

as they ranted

on.

I never said anything

but they didn’t seem to mind.

they remembered the letters

and had no idea that they

were false.

not that I was a decent

human being

but I wasn’t aligned

with any group or

ideology.

actually the whole idea of

life and people

repulsed me

but it was easier to

scrounge drinks off the

right-wingers

than off old women

in the bars.

“I don’t believe that you

are a son of mine,”

my father told me.

“what will the neighbors

think?” my mother

asked.

poor damned patriotic

deluded fools.

after they threw me out

of the house

I gave up

the meetings

and went and lived by myself in a

plywood shack on

Bunker Hill.

and my parents no longer

had to worry about

what the

neighbors thought.

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.

2

the streets were all I saw

a place in Philly

there’s nothing like being young

and starving,

living in a roominghouse and

pretending to be a

writer

while other men are occupied

with their professions and

their possessions.

there’s nothing like being

young and

starving,

listening to Brahms,

your belly sucked-in,

nary an ounce of

fat,

stretched out on the bed

in the dark,

smoking a rolled

cigarette

and working on the

last bottle of

wine,

the sheets of your

writing strewn across the

floor.

you have walked on and across

them,

your masterpieces, and

either

they’ll be read in

hell,

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