the poetry reading
av Charles Bukowski

at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money   blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I'm tense   lousy   feel bad
poor people   I'm failing   I'm failing

a woman gets ut
walks out
slams the door

a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here

it's too late.

my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
out -
desperate   trembling
lousy

they can't hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that's it, I'm
finished.

and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.

this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in dark tiny halls
reading poems I have long since become tired
of.

and I used to think
that men who drove busses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.