An Ode to Our Cats...Hank and me (Part 2)

In his later years when he ran out of things to say about drinking, the sad state of the world, women, and brawling,  Charles (Hank) Bukowski wrote some really good stuff about his cats.  He always had one or two or five hanging around and his love and admiration for them shines through his words.

He inspired me to write an 'ode' to my most recent cats.  We have a lot in common, Hank and I.  Nowadays, I try to have only one cat at a time but in the past I've had up to five.  My downfall was that I decided to breed Persian cats....but, damn!  When the kittens were born, I couldn't bear to give them up.  That ended my breeding days.


Here is an ode to Hank's mean, old, junk-yard dog of a Cat.cat lovers, cats, Charles Bukowski


bad fix   by Charles Bukowski


old Butch, they fixed him

the girls don't look like much

anymore.


when Big Sam moved out

of the back

I inherited big Butch,

70 as cats go, old, fixed,

but still as big and

mean a cat as anybody

ever remembered

seeing.


he's damn near gnawed

off my hand

the hand that feeds him

a couple of

times

but I've forgiven him,

he's fixed

and there's something in

him

that doesn't like

it.


at night

I hear him mauling andcat lovers, cats, Charles Bukowski

running other cats through

the brush.


Butch, he's still a magnificent

old cat,

fighting

even without it.


what a bastard he must have been

with it

when he was 19 or 20

walking slowly down

his path

and I look at him

now

still feel the courage

and the strength

in spite of man's smallness

in spite of man's scientific

skill

old Butch

retains

endures


peering at me with those

evil yellow eyes

out of that huge

undefeated

head.

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cat lovers, cats, Charles Bukowski     one for the old boy  by Charles Bukowski


he was just a

cat

cross-eyed,

a dirty white

with pale blue eyes

I won't bore you with his

history

just to say

he had much bad luck

and was a good old

guy

and he died.

like people die

like elephants die

like rats die

like flowers die

like water evaporates and

the wind stops blowing


the lungs gave out

last Monday.

now he's in the rose

garden

and I've heard a

stirring march

playing for him

inside of me

which I know

not many

but some of you

would like to

know

about.


that's

all.                                  To read part I click here

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Published on September 26, 2013 03:09
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