upon this time

fine then, thunderclaps at midnight, death in the plaza
my shoes need shining
my typewriter is silent.

I write this in pen
in and old yellow
notebook
while
leaning propped up against the wall
behind the
bed.

Hemingway said, "it won't come
anymore."
later - the gun
into
the mouth.

not writing is not good
but trying to write
when you can't is
worse.

hey, I have excuses:
I have TB and the
antibiotics dull the
brain.

"you'll write again, " people
assure mu, "you'll be
better than
ever."

that's nice to know
but the typewriter is silent
and it looks at
me.

meanwhile, every two or three
weeks
I get a fan letter in the mail
telling me that
surely
I must be
the world's greatest
writer.

but
that's nice to know
but the typewriter is silent
and it looks at
me ...

this is one of the
strangest times
of my
life.

I've got to do a
Lazarus
and I can't even
shine
my shoes.

De novo o favorito da casa, Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems.