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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, And You . . .</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">we have everything and we have nothing<br>and some men do it in churches<br>and some men do it by tearing butterflies<br>in half<br>and some men do it in Palm Springs<br>laying it into butterblondes<br>with Cadillac souls<br>Cadillacs and butterflies<br>nothing and everything,<br>the face melting down to the last puff<br>in a cellar in Corpus Christi.<br>there's something for the touts, the nuns,<br>the grocery clerks and you . . .<br>something at 8 a.m., something in the library<br>something in the river,<br>everything and nothing.<br>in the slaughterhouse it comes running along<br>the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it --<br>one<br>two<br>three<br>and then you've got it, $200 worth of dead<br>meat, its bones against your bones<br>something and nothing.<br>it's always early enough to die and<br>it's always too late,<br>and the drill of blood in the basin white<br>it tells you nothing at all<br>and the gravediggers playing poker over<br>5 a.m. coffee, waiting for the grass<br>to dismiss the frost . . .<br>they tell you nothing at all.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">we have everything and we have nothing --<br>days with glass edges and the impossible stink<br>of river moss -- worse than shit;<br>checkerboard days of moves and countermoves,<br>fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as<br>in victory; slow days like mules<br>humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed<br>up a road where a madman sits waiting among<br>bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flakey<br>grey.<br>good days too of wine and shouting, fights<br>in alleys, fat legs of women striving around<br>your bowels buried in moans,<br>the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering<br>Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground<br>telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves<br>that robbed you.<br>days when children say funny and brilliant things<br>like savages trying to send you a message through<br>their bodies while their bodies are still<br>alive enough to transmit and feel and run up<br>and down without locks and paychecks and<br>ideals and possessions and beetle-like<br>opinions.<br>days when you can cry all day long in<br>a green room with the door locked, days<br>when you can laugh at the breadman<br>because his legs are too long, days<br>of looking at hedges . . .</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">and nothing, and nothing, the days of<br>the bosses, yellow men<br>with bad breath and big feet, men<br>who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk<br>as if melody had never been invented, men<br>who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and<br>profit, men with expensive wives they possess<br>like 60 acres of ground to be drilled<br>or shown-off or to be walled away from<br>the incompetent, men who'd kill you<br>because they're crazy and justify it because<br>it's the law, men who stand in front of<br>windows 30 feet wide and see nothing,<br>men with luxury yachts who can sail around<br>the world and yet never get out of their vest<br>pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men<br>like slugs, and not as good . . .<br>and nothing, getting your last paycheck<br>at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an<br>aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a<br>barbershop, at a job you didn't want<br>anyway.<br>income tax, sickness, servility, broken<br>arms, broken heads -- all the stuffing<br>come out like an old pillow.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">we have everything and we have nothing.<br>some do it well enough for a while and<br>then give way. fame gets them or disgust<br>or age or lack of proper diet or ink<br>across the eyes or children in college<br>or new cars or broken backs while skiing<br>in Switzerland or new politics or new wives<br>or just natural change and decay --<br>the man you knew yesterday hooking<br>for ten rounds or drinking for three days and<br>three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now<br>just something under a sheet or a cross<br>or a stone or under an easy delusion,<br>or packing a bible or a golf bag or a<br>briefcase: how they go, how they go! -- all<br>the ones you thought would never go.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">days like this. like your day today.<br>maybe the rain on the window trying to<br>get through to you. what do you see today?<br>what is it? where are you? the best<br>days are sometimes the first, sometimes<br>the middle and even sometimes the last.<br>the vacant lots are not bad, churches in<br>Europe on postcards are not bad. people in<br>wax museums frozen into their best sterility<br>are not bad, horrible but not bad. the<br>cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for<br>breakfast the coffee hot enough you<br>know your tongue is still there, three<br>geraniums outside a window, trying to be<br>red and trying to be pink and trying to be<br>geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women<br>cry, no wonder the mules don't want<br>to go up the hill. are you in a hotel room<br>in Detroit looking for a cigarette? one more<br>good day. a little bit of it. and as<br>the nurses come out of the building after<br>their shift, having had enough, eight nurses<br>with different names and different places<br>to go -- walking across the lawn, some of them<br>want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a<br>hot bath, some of them want a man, some<br>of them are hardly thinking at all. enough<br>and not enough. arcs and pilgrims, oranges<br>gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of<br>tissue paper.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">in the most decent sometimes sun<br>there is the softsmoke feeling from urns<br>and the canned sound of old battleplanes<br>and if you go inside and run your finger<br>along the window ledge you'll find<br>dirt, maybe even earth.<br>and if you look out the window<br>there will be the day, and as you<br>get older you'll keep looking<br>keep looking<br>sucking your tongue in a little<br>ah ah no no maybe</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">some do it naturally<br>some obscenely<br>everywhere.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=354662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><br>Submitted by Dylan Skola</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Charles+Bukowski">Charles Bukowski</a></strong></div>