the typewriter sits silent, it's as if you've
been betrayed, it's as if a murder has
yet words still run through you brain:
"the Spanish bird sings!"
at least it's a ripple, even if unusable.
when will the keys
beat into the
it's so easy to die long before the
fact of it.
I look at the machine resting under its black
cover; an unpaid gas bill sleeps on top of
there is a small refrigerator in the
room, it makes the only audible sound
I open it and look inside:
I sit back down in the chair and wait; then I
decide to fool the
I write this
with a ballpoint
in a red
I am sneaking up on a poem;
there will soon be something for that
there is a French expression, "without
life is hell."
the glory and power of that!
now let the Spanish bird sing!
~Charles Bukowski. From Slouching Toward Nirvana.