blue_sign4.jpg

Home | Books | Poetry Magazines | GAS: High-Octane Poetry | To Order | Linkage
Charles Bukowski
anonymity

I never got to where I was
driving that night after
I exhaled two 15's on the breath
meter.
they put the cuffs
on me
and I climbed into the back seat
of their squad car
for a ride to the drunk tank at
150 N. Los Angeles Street,
Parker Center.
 
"what's your occupation?"
the one not driving asked
me.
 
"I'm a writer," I answered.
 
"you sure don't look like a
writer to me," said the
cop.
 
"oh, I'm famous," I
said.
 
"I never heard of you,"
he said.
 
"I never heard of you either,"
I replied.
 
they parked, got me out and
walked me up the ramp.
 
"you sure don't look like a
writer," the cop said
again.
 
inside they took the cuffs
off.
I guess they were right:
I wasn't famous
and they weren't sure
what a writer should
look like.
but I knew what cops
looked like.
these were cops
and they were famous
and looked the same
all over the
world.
 
in a crowded drunk tank
everything was as per usual:
one toilet without a lid
and one pay
telephone, both
being used.
 
 

 
 
from BLUE BOOK #1

Copyright (c) Blue Press, 2006