Read Online New Poems Book Three by Charles Bukowski - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Bukowski
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conversation with the head nurse
who listened to my problem.
“well, all right,” she said, “we
won’t weigh you every
morning, we’ll only weigh you
3 times a week, Monday,
Wednesday and
Saturday.”
I thanked her.
“I’ll write an order on your
chart,” she said.
I don’t know what she wrote
on my chart
but they never weighed me
again
Monday, Wednesday,
Saturday
or any other day and I was there
in that hospital
for another two
months.
in fact, I never heard the hard sound
of that scale rolling down the hallway
again.
I think they stopped weighing
everybody
except maybe themselves
now and then.
Christ, the damned thing was
just too difficult to operate
anyhow.
THEY ROLLED THE BED OUT OF THERE
the nurse was standing with her back to me,
saying, “I’ve got to get the air bubbles out of
the line.”
I began to cough and I coughed some more,
then I began to tremble, tremble and
shake and jump.
I couldn’t breathe, my face was burning
but the worst was my back, right down at the
end of the spine—the pain was black and
unendurable
and the next thing I knew was
the sound of loud buzzers
and they were rolling the bed out
of there, there were 5 or 6 female nurses,
there was an oxygen tank and then I was
breathing again, the tubes stuck in my
nostrils.
they rolled me down to a large room
across from the nurses’ station and it was
like in a movie, I was hooked up to a
machine that had little blue lines
dancing across the screen.
“do you still need oxygen?” one of
the nurses asked.
“let’s try it without.”
it was all right then.
“how much is this room costing me?”
I asked.
“don’t worry, we’re not charging
anything extra.”
after a while they came in with a
portable machine and x-rayed
me.
“how long am I going to be in this
room?”
“overnight or until somebody needs
it more than you do.”
then my wife was there.
“my god, I went to your room
and it was empty, bed and all!
why are you here?”
“they haven’t figured it out yet.”
“there must be a reason.”
“sure.”
well, I wasn’t dead and my wife
sat and watched the little lines
dance on the screen
and I watched the nurses
answering the phones and
reading things on clipboards
and actually it was rather
pleasant and almost
interesting, although there was
no tv in the room and I was
going to miss the Sumo tournament
on channel
18.
the next day the doctors said
they had no idea what had
caused the whole thing
and the nurses took my bed
and rolled me back to my
old room with the tiny window,
my trusty
urinal, and the little Christ
they had nailed to the wall
after my 3rd day
there.
CRAWL
the streets melt, I do not
smile often, I hold up these trembling white
walls.
the finish line beckons
while
the stables are full of fresh, young
runners.
the crowd screams for more action
as I don my green
bathrobe,
x-tough guy
dangling at the end of the
dream.
anything to say to the world,
sir?
no.
would you do it all over again?
no.
have you learned anything
from this experience?
no.
any advice for the young
poets?
learn to say “no.”
I really know nothing at all.
the hospital spins like a top,
spewing nurses throughout the
building.
I have escaped twice before
and now is the third
time.
slow death is pure
death, you can taste a little bit of it
each day.
I am amazed that other people
remain alive and healthy:
doing their duties,
bored and/or beastly.
they swarm about,
fill the streets and buildings.
these are the fortunate
unfortunates.
I stretch out upon the bed.
my poor wife, she must live with
this.
she is a strong, good
woman.
“you’re going to be fine,”
she says.
and so are:
the blue whale, the sleepy young
doctors practicing their vascular
and bariatric surgery, the simple
dark tone of
midnight.
I’ll see them all later in the forest along with the
giant
gorilla.
NOTHING HERE
so
who listened to my problem.
“well, all right,” she said, “we
won’t weigh you every
morning, we’ll only weigh you
3 times a week, Monday,
Wednesday and
Saturday.”
I thanked her.
“I’ll write an order on your
chart,” she said.
I don’t know what she wrote
on my chart
but they never weighed me
again
Monday, Wednesday,
Saturday
or any other day and I was there
in that hospital
for another two
months.
in fact, I never heard the hard sound
of that scale rolling down the hallway
again.
I think they stopped weighing
everybody
except maybe themselves
now and then.
Christ, the damned thing was
just too difficult to operate
anyhow.
THEY ROLLED THE BED OUT OF THERE
the nurse was standing with her back to me,
saying, “I’ve got to get the air bubbles out of
the line.”
I began to cough and I coughed some more,
then I began to tremble, tremble and
shake and jump.
I couldn’t breathe, my face was burning
but the worst was my back, right down at the
end of the spine—the pain was black and
unendurable
and the next thing I knew was
the sound of loud buzzers
and they were rolling the bed out
of there, there were 5 or 6 female nurses,
there was an oxygen tank and then I was
breathing again, the tubes stuck in my
nostrils.
they rolled me down to a large room
across from the nurses’ station and it was
like in a movie, I was hooked up to a
machine that had little blue lines
dancing across the screen.
“do you still need oxygen?” one of
the nurses asked.
“let’s try it without.”
it was all right then.
“how much is this room costing me?”
I asked.
“don’t worry, we’re not charging
anything extra.”
after a while they came in with a
portable machine and x-rayed
me.
“how long am I going to be in this
room?”
“overnight or until somebody needs
it more than you do.”
then my wife was there.
“my god, I went to your room
and it was empty, bed and all!
why are you here?”
“they haven’t figured it out yet.”
“there must be a reason.”
“sure.”
well, I wasn’t dead and my wife
sat and watched the little lines
dance on the screen
and I watched the nurses
answering the phones and
reading things on clipboards
and actually it was rather
pleasant and almost
interesting, although there was
no tv in the room and I was
going to miss the Sumo tournament
on channel
18.
the next day the doctors said
they had no idea what had
caused the whole thing
and the nurses took my bed
and rolled me back to my
old room with the tiny window,
my trusty
urinal, and the little Christ
they had nailed to the wall
after my 3rd day
there.
CRAWL
the streets melt, I do not
smile often, I hold up these trembling white
walls.
the finish line beckons
while
the stables are full of fresh, young
runners.
the crowd screams for more action
as I don my green
bathrobe,
x-tough guy
dangling at the end of the
dream.
anything to say to the world,
sir?
no.
would you do it all over again?
no.
have you learned anything
from this experience?
no.
any advice for the young
poets?
learn to say “no.”
I really know nothing at all.
the hospital spins like a top,
spewing nurses throughout the
building.
I have escaped twice before
and now is the third
time.
slow death is pure
death, you can taste a little bit of it
each day.
I am amazed that other people
remain alive and healthy:
doing their duties,
bored and/or beastly.
they swarm about,
fill the streets and buildings.
these are the fortunate
unfortunates.
I stretch out upon the bed.
my poor wife, she must live with
this.
she is a strong, good
woman.
“you’re going to be fine,”
she says.
and so are:
the blue whale, the sleepy young
doctors practicing their vascular
and bariatric surgery, the simple
dark tone of
midnight.
I’ll see them all later in the forest along with the
giant
gorilla.
NOTHING HERE
so
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