the typewriter sits silent, it's as if you've
been betrayed, it's as if a murder has
occurred.
yet words still run through you brain:
"the Spanish bird sings!"
what can
that mean?
at least it's a ripple, even if unusable.
when will the keys
beat into the
paper
again?
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
it.
there is a small refrigerator in the
room, it makes the only audible sound
here.
I open it and look inside:
it's empty.
I sit back down in the chair and wait; then I
decide to fool the
typewriter.
I write this
now
with a ballpoint
pen
in a red
notebook;
I am sneaking up on a poem;
there will soon be something for that
frigging
typewriter
to do!
there is a French expression, "without
literature
life is hell."
the glory and power of that!
now let the Spanish bird sing!
~Charles Bukowski. From Slouching Toward Nirvana.
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