I can see myself now
after all these suicide days and nights,
being wheeled out of one of those sterile rest homes
(of course, this is only if I get famous and lucky)
by a subnormal and bored nurse…
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair…
almost blind, eyes rolling backward into the dark part of my skull
looking
for the mercy of death…
Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski
O, yeah, yeah…
the children walk past and I don’t even exist
and lovely women walk by
with big hot hips
and warm buttocks and tight hot everything
praying to be loved
and I don’t even
exist…
It’s the first sunlight we’ve had in 3 days,
Mr. Bukowski.
Oh, yeah, yeah.
there I am sitting upright in my wheelchair,
myself whiter than this sheet of paper,
bloodless,
brain gone, gamble gone, me, Bukowski,
gone…
Isn’t it a lovely day, Mr. Bukowski
O, yeah, yeah… [bad word] in my pajamas, slop drooling out of
my mouth.
2 young [bad word] by —
Hey, did you see that old guy
Christ, yes, he made me sick!
after all the threats to do so
somebody else [bad word] suicide for me
at last.
the nurse stops the wheelchair, breaks a rose from a nearby bush,
puts it in my hand.
I don’t even know
what it is. it might as well be my [bad word] for all the good
it does.