Post Office

by Charles Bukowski

And, I thought, I might get used to it. I never got used to it.

HELPS DEFEAT THE RUSSIANS!

Humans, birds, everything has to make these decisions. It was a hard game.

God damn if I can understand a woman.

“Some men are crazy,” I said, moving toward the door. “What do you mean?” “I mean, some men are in love with their wives.”

“BUT I NEED ASSURANCE!” “It’s a good thing a few others didn’t think that way. It’s a good thing Van Gogh didn’t think that way.” “VAN GOGH’S BROTHER GAVE HIM FREE PAINTS!”

God or somebody keeps creating women and tossing them out on the streets, and this one’s ass is too big and that one’s tits are too small, and this one is mad and that one is crazy and that one is a religionist and that one reads tea leaves and this one can’t control her farts, and that one has this big nose, and that one has boney legs … But now and then, a woman walks up, full blossom, a woman just bursting out of her dress … a sex creature, a curse, the end of it all.

абажаю

“Oh Jesus Christ,” I said, “Oh Jesus Christ!” I don’t know how Jesus Christ always got into such things.

“I know you want to save the world. But can’t you start in the kitchen?”