Charles Bukowski A Veces Estoy Tan Solo Que Tiene Sentido Pdf I | EXCLUSIVE |

The poem read:

He stared at the last line. It was a lie. He couldn’t remember a good day. There were days that were less bad. Days where the landlord forgot to knock. Days where the corner store gave him credit. But a good day? That was a myth for people who believed in God or mutual funds.

I am so alone that the walls have started to listen. They don’t answer, but they don’t leave either. That’s more than most people.

The whiskey was gone. The gin was gone. There was half a bottle of cooking sherry under the sink, the kind with the pink label and a price tag that still had a cent sign. He considered it. Then he considered the window. Fourth floor. The alley below was a black trench full of broken glass and the silence of things that had been thrown away. The poem read: He stared at the last line

He typed one more line. Then he pulled the paper out, folded it once, and put it in his pocket. Someday, someone would find it. Or not. That was the point.

Below it, the final line he’d added:

He looked at the cockroach again. Then he looked at the last line he’d written. He smiled. Not because he was happy. But because the cockroach, at least, had died doing what it loved. Nothing. There were days that were less bad

The cockroach died at 3:17 a.m. It lay on its back near the base of the typewriter, six legs pointed toward the cracked ceiling like a tiny, overturned throne. Henry Chinaski, or whatever was left of him, watched it for a full hour. He didn’t kill it. It just ran out of reasons to keep going.

The phone doesn’t ring because the wire is cut. The mail doesn’t come because the box is empty. The woman doesn’t come back because she finally got smart. I am a museum of bad decisions. Admission: your last good day.

He lit a cigarette. The smoke curled up toward a water stain on the ceiling that looked exactly like the state of Nevada. He’d been there once. Lost a hundred dollars on a horse named “No Dice.” The horse finished last. The jockey later tested positive for heroin. That was the closest thing to a miracle Henry had ever witnessed. But a good day

At 4:00 a.m., he poured the cooking sherry. It tasted like regret mixed with cough syrup and a hint of rotting plum. It was perfect. He drank it warm, straight from the bottle, standing at the window in his underwear. The city was a grid of yellow lights, each one a cage with a different kind of animal inside. Couples sleeping back-to-back. Insomniacs watching infomercials. Children with fevers. None of them knew he existed. None of them would have cared if they did.

And it was enough.

He looked at the typewriter. The carriage was stuck. A half-finished poem sat in the roller. It was called “PDF I.” He didn’t know what PDF meant. Portable Document Format? That was too clean. Too corporate. For Henry, it meant Puta, Dios, y Fútbol. Whore, God, and Soccer. Three things that had never saved a single soul.