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
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:
god damn! it's almost like being shot in the ass
with a .22
"hello," I say
gathering up my Visa card bill, my Pennysaver 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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Comments about this poem (back to the machine gun by Charles Bukowski )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(24 January 1572 - 31 March 1631)
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