yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
the starch mountains begin out in the willow
and keep right on going without regard for
pumas and nectarines
somehow these mountains are like
an old woman with a bad memory and
a shopping basket.
we are in a basin. that is the
idea. down in the sand and the alleys,
this land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided,
held like a crucifix in a deathhand,
this land bought, resold, bought again and
sold again, the wars long over,
the Spaniards all the way back in Spain
down in the thimble again, and now
real estaters, subdividers, landlords, freeway
engineers arguing. this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
listening to glazed recordings
and I think too of old men sick of music
sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary, and to get your
hold on the land here it is best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the old Mexican women,
the poor . . . I am sure you have seen these same women
many years before
arguing
with the same young Japanese clerks
witty, knowledgeable and golden
among their soaring store of oranges, apples
avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers -
and you know how these look, they do look good
as if you could eat them all
light a cigar and smoke away the bad world.
then it's best to go back to the bars, the same bars
wooden, stale, merciless, green
with the young policeman walking through
scared and looking for trouble,
and the beer is still bad
it has an edge that already mixes with vomit and
decay, and you've got to be strong in the shadows
to ignore it, to ignore the poor and to ignore yourself
and the shopping bag between your legs
down there feeling good with its avocados and
oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles, who needs
a Fort Lauderdale winter?
25 years ago there used to be a whore there
with a film over one eye, who was too fat
and made little silver bells out of cigarette
tinfoil. the sun seemed warmer then
although this was probably not
true, and you take your shopping bag
outside and walk along the street
and the green beer hangs there
just above your stomach like
a short and shameful shawl, and
you look around and no longer
see any
old men.
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Comments
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It is today
From guest Wade Pascoe (contact)
Spring 2009 and I heard Tom Russell do this for the first time. I thought it was some of Tom's new work. I canot imagine this is as old as it is. Reading it or better hearing Tom do it, It seems like I am there watching this unfold before me today, like a motion picture. -
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Crucufix extention......
From guest Jim David (contact)
If y'all love this poem, i reccomend Tom Russell's version of this verse in a song format...."Crucifix in a Deathhand/Carmalita"... Tom recites the poem over some south-of-the-border chord changes on a sparse guitar track.... Tom Was friends with the Buk in the later years... They wrote to each other over the years...To hear more on the Buk, check out Tom Russell's "Hotwalker" album.... lots of great stories and memories... some told by Little Jack Horton, a circus midget and good friend of the Buk.... Good stuff!!! -
From guest Roger Appleby (contact)
Thank you for posting this poem. I knew Bukowski in L.A. during the summer of love...he wrote a prose column for an underground paper that I was drawn to and became involved in...he called his column "Notes of a Dirty Old Man" and it was better than good...actually it was the writing that drew me to the paper named "Open City" and Buks writing was the best...I had a copy of the book, but like so many other things it got lost, but I'm happy to finally have the words back again... -
wow very very impressive. i read it aloud. and i am so inspired. i tried writing with the same format, quite a few times. my work always lack something... this is such an inspiration, i am motivated to make mine perfect or at least come up with a satisfactory result.
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hmmmm. This is an interesting write. I like the way that he creates little pictures. One after the other. You know, the woman with the bells, the piles of oranges and avocados, the scared policeman. It is just a poem about several clips of images, several memories all rolled into one. I like it.
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wow i loved it i dont say that often very expressive and the imagry is realistic ..all around not sugar coated real world and thats not common great work
Cyb
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