I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail <br />in my old torn bathrobe. <br />I'm hung over <br />hair down in my eyes <br />barefoot <br />gingerly walking on the small sharp rocks <br />in my path <br />still afraid of pain behind my four-day beard. <br /> <br />the young housewife next door shakes a rug <br />out of her window and sees me: <br />"hello, Hank!" <br /> <br />god damn! it's almost like being shot in the ass <br />with a .22 <br /> <br />"hello," I say <br />gathering up my Visa card bill, my Pennysaver coupons, <br />a Dept. of Water and Power past-due notice, <br />a letter from the mortgage people <br />plus a demand from the Weed Abatement Department <br />giving me 30 days to clean up my act. <br /> <br />I mince back again over the small sharp rocks <br />thinking, maybe I'd better write something tonight, <br />they all seem <br />to be closing in. <br /> <br />there's only one way to handle those motherfuckers. <br /> <br />the night harness races will have to wait.<br /><br />Charles Bukowski<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/back-to-the-machine-gun/