Disorder And Early Sorrow

25 fev

I was in the habit of sleeping there in the
nearby abandoned graveyard,
two or three mornings a week,
whenever I experienced my worst morning hangovers
and
just didn’t feel like going right back to the
neighborhood bar where I spent my
afternoons and evenings.

it was cool and quiet
there in the tall wet grass in that graveyard;
the small insects didn’t crawl on
you as they did when you lay
in the dry itchy
summer grass.
sleep was more possible.

and always before sleeping
I’d look around the graveyard, at the tilting
headstones, their inscriptions obscured,
tilting at
very strange angles, having finally succumbed
to the law of gravity
(here were the truly forgotten dead
and I felt I wanted to join them.)
the old rusty wrought iron fence
that surrounded the
graveyard seemed more to sag than
tilt,
the quiet was utterly
marvelous,
and there was nobody about but the forgotten dead,
and I wondered about their bones
buried there,
bones having long ago escaped from the
rotting coffins.
it was all so curious,
so strange,
those long dead and forgotten bones,
those lives gone, totally
erased, their history now never to be
recorded.

I felt sad for thos lost lives
and felt
there was a perspective to
be gleaned about it all
but it was a vague one,
one only partially
understood.

I was usually awakened
with the noon sun
burning my upturned face
and I would rise,
not looking back at my faceless
companions,
and make my way
back to the bar.

then to sit there and look down
into my first draft
beer, wondering about things:
the forgotten dead,
a fly,
the bartender’s shirt,
voices emanating from those sitting
nearby,
the smell of urine from the
crapper,
the sound of passing automobiles,
somebody laughing,
my trembling hand lighting a first
cigarette.

nothing to do then but
get drunk
again.

Charles Bukowski

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