moments of agony and moments of glory
march across my roof.
the cat walks by
seeming to know everything.
my luck has been better, I think.
than the luck of the cut gladiolus,
although I am not sure.
I have been loved by many women,
and for a hunchback of life,
that’s lucky
so many fingers pushing through my hair
so many arms holding me close
so many shoes thrown carelessly on my bedroom
rug.
so many searching hearts
now fixed in my memory that
I’ll go to my death,
remembering.
I have been treated better than I should have
been—
not by life in general
not by the machinery of things
but by women.
but there have been other women
who have left me
standing in the bedroom alone
doubled over—
hands holding the gut—
thinking
why why why why why why?
women go to men who are pigs
women go to men with dead souls
women go to men who fuck badly
women go to shadows of men
women go
go
because they must go
in the order of
things.
the women know better
but often chose out of
disorder and confusion
they can heal with their touch
they can kill what they touch and
I am dying
but not dead
yet.
—Charles Bukowski, hunchback
