Читать книгу Essential Bukowski: Poetry - Чарльз Буковски, Abel Debritto - Страница 13

and, I said, you can take your rich aunts and uncles

and grandfathers and fathers

and all their lousy oil

and their seven lakes

and their wild turkey

and buffalo

and the whole state of Texas,

meaning, your crow-blasts

and your Saturday night boardwalks,

and your 2-bit

library

and your crooked councilmen

and your pansy artists—

you can take all these

and your weekly newspaper

and your famous tornadoes

and your filthy floods

and all your yowling cats

and your subscription to Life, and shove them, baby, shove them.

I can handle a pick and ax again (I think)

and I can pick up

25 bucks for a 4-rounder (maybe);

sure, I’m 38

but a little dye can pinch the gray

out of my hair;

and I can still write a poem (sometimes),

don’t forget that, and even if they don’t pay off, it’s better than waiting for death and oil, and shooting wild turkey, and waiting for the world to begin.

all right, bum, she said,

get out.

what? I said.

get out. you’ve thrown your

last tantrum.

I’m tired of your damned tantrums:

you’re always acting like a

character in an O’Neill play.

but I’m different, baby,

I can’t help

it.

you’re different, all right!

God, how different!

don’t slam

the door

when you leave.

but, baby, I love your money!

you never once said

you loved me!

what do you want

a liar or a

lover?

you’re neither! out, bum,

out!

. . . but baby!

go back to O’Neill!

I went to the door,

softly closed it and walked away,

thinking: all they want

is a wooden Indian

to say yes and no

and stand over the fire and

not raise too much hell;

but you’re getting to be

an old man, kiddo:

next time play it closer

to the

vest.