Charles Bukowski

Back To The Machine Gun

I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail in my old torn bathrobe. I'm hung over hair down in my eyes barefoot gingerly walking on the small sharp rocks in my path still afraid of pain behind my four-day beard. The young housewife next door shakes a rug out of her window and sees me: "Hello, Hank!" God damn! It's almost like being shot in the ass with a .22 "Hello," I say gathering up my Visa card bill, my Penny saver coupons, a Dept. of Water and Power past-due notice, a letter from the mortgage people plus a demand from the Weed Abatement Department giving me 30 days to clean up my act. I mince back again over the small sharp rocks thinking, maybe I'd better write something tonight, they all seem to be closing in. There's only one way to handle those motherfuckers. The night harness races will have to wait.

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