Charles Bukowski

Revolt In The Ranks

I have just spent one hour and a half handicapping tomorrow's card. When am I going to get at the poems? Well, they'll just have to wait. They'll have to warm their feet in the anteroom where they'll sit gossiping about me. "This Chinaski, doesn't he realize that without us he would have long ago gone mad, been dead?" "He knows, but he thinks he can keep us at his beck and call!" "He's an ingrate!" "Let's give him writer's block!" "Yeah!" "Yeah!" "Yeah!" The little poems kick up their heels and laugh. Then the biggest one gets up and walks toward the door. "Hey, where are you going?" he is asked. "Somewhere where I am appreciated." Then, he and the others vanish. I open a beer, sit down at the machine, and nothing happens. Like now.

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