betting on the muse - Charles Bukowski

Jimmy Foxx died an alcoholic

in a skidrow hotel

room.

Beau Jack ended up shining

shoes,

just where he

began.

there are dozens, hundreds

more, maybe

thousands more.

being an athlete grown old

is one of the cruelest of

fates,

to be replaced by others,

to no longer hear the

cheers and the

plaudits,

to no longer be

recognized,

just to be an old man

like other old

men.

to almost not believe it

yourself,

to check the scrapbook

with the yellowing

pages.

there you are,

smiling;

there you are,

victorious;

there you are,

young.

the crowd has other

heroes,

the crowd never dies,

never grows old

but the crowd often

forgets.

now the telephone

doesn’t ring,

the young girls are

gone,

the party is

over.

this is why I chose

to be a

writer.

if you’re worth just

half-a-damn

you can keep your

hustle going

until the last minute

of the last

day.

you can keep

getting better instead

of worse,

you can still keep

hitting them over the

wall.

through darkness, war,

good and bad

luck

you keep it going,

hitting them out,

the flashing lightning

of the

word,

beating life at life,

and death too late to

truly win

against

you.

- Charles Bukowski (Hank)

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