Poems that you love

[rayheinrich]

I came off a bit down on the guy, but he's one of my faves.
It's just that I didn't like "Dreamlessly".

Story about Bukowski and Michael Mcneilley (a poet friend of mine):

Story:
Michael, making ends meet, was working as a projectionist in a small porno movie house.
Bukowski came in every so often. One night Michael was very drunk. He forgot to rewind the film
and put the take-up reel where the feed reel should go. He started the film without looking at it,
slumped down against the wall, and fell asleep. A film, projected this way, runs upside down and backwards.
Bukowski was in the audience that night, but instead of booing and stomping his feet liked the rest
of the audience, he walked back to the projection booth, ignored Michael completely,
stopped the projector, picked up another film that had been rewound properly, mounted it on the projector,
started it, and walked back to his seat. (Since this story is too long already, I'll leave out the rest of the
details.) What resulted was: Nobody noticed, Michael kept his job, Bukowski got in for free from then on,
and Bukowski, likely as not, would end up in the projection room drinking with Michael.


My favorite Bukowski done by Russell - always fucking thrills me:

Tom Russell (masterful lyricist and singer) does Bukowski's "Crucifix In A Deathhand"  
(followed by the first stanza of Warren Zevon's "Carmelita")

Tom Russell : Crucifix In A Death Hand
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xiEHzCs2W3o

for reference, Zevon's entire "Carmelita":
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B9L8jLPE84g

A famous poem of his (and my absolute fav):

Crucifix In A Deathhand  
                                - Charles Bukowski

yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like
an old woman with a bad memory and
a shopping basket.
we are in a basin. that is the
idea. down in the sand and the alleys,
this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,
held like a crucifix in a deathhand,
this land bought, resold, bought again and
sold again, the wars long over,
the Spaniards all the way back in Spain
down in the thimble again, and now
real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway
engineers arguing. this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
listening to glazed recordings
and I think too of old men sick of music
sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your
hold on the land here it is best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,
the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women
many years before
arguing
with the same young Japanese clerks
witty, knowledgeable and golden
among their soaring store of oranges, apples
avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers -
and you know how these look, they do look good
as if you could eat them all
light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.
then it's best to go back to the bars, the same bars
wooden, stale, merciless, green
with the young policeman walking through
scared and looking for trouble,
and the beer is still bad
it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and
decay, and you've got to be strong in the shadows
to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself
and the shopping bag between your legs
down there feeling good with its avocados and
oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs
a Fort Lauderdale winter?
25 years ago there used to be a whore there
with a film over one eye, who was too fat
and made little silver bells out of cigarette
tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then
although this was probably not
true, and you take your shopping bag
outside and walk along the street
and the green beer hangs there
just above your stomach like
a short and shameful shawl, and
you look around and no longer
see any
old men.