You get so alone at times that it just makes sense

You get so alone at times that it just makes sense

You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

for Jeff Copland

beasts bounding through time—

the lost generation

no help for that

my non-ambitious ambition

that’s why funerals are so sad

bumming with Jane

termites of the page

the still trapeze

sunny side down

the man in the brown suit

a magician, gone…

well, that’s just the way it is

the chemistry of things

my friend, the parking lot attendant

a non-urgent poem

my first affair with that older woman

the freeway life

p.o. box 11946, Fresno, Calif. 93776

for my ivy league friends:

helping the old

bad times at the 3rd and Vermont hotel

the Master Plan

my vanishing act

let’s make a deal

16-bit Intel 8088 chip

the crazy truth

drive through hell

for the concerned:

the finest of the breed

close to greatness

friends within the darkness

death sat on my knee and cracked with laughter

O tempora! O mores!

the passing of a great one

the wine of forever

I thought the stuff tasted worse than usual

I’m not a misogynist

the lady in the castle

relentless as the tarantula

it’s funny, isn’t it? #1

it’s funny, isn’t it? #2

the beautiful lady editor

about the PEN conference

everybody talks too much

me and my buddy

love poem to a stripper

the magic curse

wearing the collar

a cat is a cat is a cat is a cat

marching through Georgia

I meet the famous poet

the shrinking island

those girls we followed home

a tragic meeting

an ordinary poem

from an old dog in his cups…

trying to make it

the death of a splendid neighborhood

you get so alone at times that it just makes sense

a good gang, after all

late late late poem

someday I’m going to write a primer for crippled saints but meanwhile

sticks and stones…

our laughter is muted by their agony

what am I doing?

how is your heart?

About the Author

Other Books by Charles Bukowski

About the Publisher

listening to Wagner

as outside in the dark the wind blows a cold rain the

trees wave and shake lights go

off and on the walls creak and the cats run under the

Wagner battles the agonies, he’s emotional but

solid, he’s the supreme fighter, a giant in a world of

pygmies, he takes it straight on through, he breaks

astonishing FORCE of sound as

everything here shakes

in fierce gamble

yes, Wagner and the storm intermix with the wine as

nights like this run up my wrists and up into my head and

back down into the

and some men never

but we’re all alive

naturally, we are all caught in

downmoods, it’s a matter of

and an existence

seems to forbid

any real chance at

I was in a downmood

when this rich pig

along with his blank

in this red Mercedes

at racetrack parking.

it clicked inside of me

I’m going to pull that fucker

out of his car and

into Valet parking

parked behind him

and jumped from my

I rapped on the window

“open up! I’m gonna

he just sat there

they wouldn’t look

he was 30 years

but I knew I could

he was soft and

I beat on the window

“come on out, shithead,

or I’m go
ing to start

he gave a small nod

I saw her reach

and slip him the

I saw him hold it

and snap off the

clubhouse, it looked

like a damned good

all I had to do

pork chops, said my father, I love

and I watched him slide the grease

pancakes, he said, pancakes with

syrup, butter and bacon!

I watched his lips heavy wetted with

coffee, he said, I like coffee so hot

it burns my throat!

sometimes it was too hot and he spit it

out across the table.

mashed potatoes and gravy, he said, I

love mashed potatoes and gravy!

he jowled that in, his cheeks puffed as

if he had the mumps.

chili and beans, he said, I love chili and

and he gulped it down and farted for hours

loudly, grinning after each fart.

strawberry shortcake, he said, with vanilla

ice cream, that’s the way to end a meal!

he always talked about retirement, about

what he was going to do when he

when he wasn’t talking about food he talked

on and on about

he never made it to retirement, he died one day while

standing at the sink

filling a glass of water.

he straightened like he’d been

the glass fell from his hand

and he dropped backwards

his necktie slipping to the

people said they couldn’t believe

sideburns, pack of smokes in his

shirt pocket, always cracking

jokes, maybe a little

loud and maybe with a bit of bad

a seemingly sound

never missing a day

in this steamy a.m. Hades claps its Herpes hands and

a woman sings through my radio, her voice comes clambering

through the smoke, and the wine fumes…

it’s a lonely time, she sings, and you’re not

mine and it makes me feel so bad,

this thing of being me…

I can hear cars on the freeway, it’s like a distant sea

sludged with people

while over my other shoulder, far over on 7th street

is the hospital, that house of agony—

sheets and bedpans and arms and heads and

everything is so sweetly awful, so continuously and

sweetly awful: the art of consummation: life eating

once in a dream I saw a snake swallowing its own

tail, it swallowed and swallowed until

it got halfway round, and there it stopped and

there it stayed, it was stuffed with its own

self. some fix, that.

we only have ourselves to go on, and it’s

I go downstairs for another bottle, switch on the

cable and there’s Greg Peck pretending he’s

F. Scott and he’s very excited and he’s reading his

manuscript to his lady.

what kind of writer is that? reading his pages to

a lady? this is a violation…

I return upstairs and my two cats follow me, they are

fine fellows, we have no discontent, we have no

arguments, we listen to the same music, never vote for a

one of my cats, the big one, leaps on the back

of my chair, rubs against my shoulders and

“no good,” I tell him, “I’m not going

to read you this

he leaps to the floor and walks out to the

balcony and his buddy

they sit and watch the night; we’ve got the

power of sanity here.

these early a.m. mornings when almost everybody

is asleep, small night bugs, winged things

enter, and circle and whirl.

the machine hums its electric hum, and having

opened and tasted the new bottle I type the next

can read it to your lady and she’ll probably tell you

it’s nonsense. she’ll be

reading Tender Is the

beasts bounding through time—

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints

Hemingway testing his shotgun

Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine

the impossibility of being human

Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief

Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town

the impossibility of being human

Burroughs killing his wife with a gun

Mailer stabbing his

the impossibility of being human

Maupassant going mad in a rowboat

Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot

Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller

Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato

Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun

Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops

Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench

Chatterton drinking rat poison

Shakespeare a plagiarist

Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness

the impossibility the impossibility

Nietzsche gone totally mad

the impossibility of being human

these mad dogs of glory

moving this little bit of light toward

the wind blows hard tonight

and it’s a cold wind

and I think about

the boys on the row.

I hope some of them have a bottle

it’s when you’re on the row

that you notice that

and that there are locks on

this is the way a democracy

you get what you can,

try to keep that

this is the way a dictatorship

only they either enslave or

we just fo
rget

the lost generation

have been reading a book about a rich literary lady

You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense Quotes

“Lighting new cigarettes,
pouring more
drinks.

It has been a beautiful
fight.

“some men never
die
and some men never
live

“when we were kids
laying around the lawn
on our
bellies

we often talked
about
how
we’d like to
die

and
we all
agreed on the
same
thing;

we’d all
like to die
fucking

(although
none of us
had
done any
fucking)

and now
that
we are hardly
kids
any longer

we think more
about
how
not to
die

most of
us
would
prefer to
do it
alone

“Beasts bounding through time.

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory

moving this little bit of light toward
us
impossibly”
― Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense

“there’s nothing to
discuss
there’s nothing to
remember
there’s nothing to
forget

it’s sad
and
it’s not
sad

seems the
most sensible
thing
a person can
do
is
sit
with drink in
hand
as the walls
wave
their goodbye
smiles

one comes through
it
all
with a certain
amount of
efficiency and
bravery
then
leaves

some accept
the possibility of
God
to help them
get
through

You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense

320 pages, Paperback

First published June 5, 1986

About the author

Charles Bukowski

Henry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books

Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.

Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).

He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.

Senses Fail — «You Get so Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense»

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I used to want to kill myself, I used to want to die
I used to drink myself to sleep at night
And I’m afraid that Jesus Christ will take me tonight

I used to want to blow my brains out in a crowded room
I used to want to drown myself in every swimming pool that I would see
I used to blame everyone else but me
Because I was so fucked up

Into the darkest night I’ll take you by my side
Into the summer sun we won’t just come undone
And all my life, all my life I’ve waited to kiss your perfect face
Into the darkest night I’ll take you by my side

I love the way that you wear those ribbons in your hair
And have I told you that you saved me from the despair that was choking me
I’m so thankful that I get to breathe

Into the darkest night I’ll take you by my side
Into the summer sun we won’t just come undone
And all my life, all my life I’ve waited to kiss your perfect face
Into the darkest night I’ll take you by my side

My love for you will never die until the flesh rots off my bones and I am smashed into a million flakes of dust
I won’t lie, I won’t lie, I won’t lie, this could save your life
I’m so afraid that everything that’s wrong with me will become part of you and you will never see
I won’t lie, I won’t lie, I won’t lie, this could save my life

My love for you will never die
My love for you will never die
My love for you will never die
My love for you will never die

Into the darkest night I’ll take you by my side
Into the summer sun we won’t just come undone
And all my life, all my life I’ve waited to kiss your perfect face
Into the darkest night I’ll take you by my side

I won’t lie, I won’t lie, I won’t lie

You get so alone at times that it just makes sense

You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

for Jeff Copland

beasts bounding through time—

the lost generation

no help for that

my non-ambitious ambition

that’s why funerals are so sad

bumming with Jane

termites of the page

the still trapeze

sunny side down

the man in the brown suit

a magician, gone…

well, that’s just the way it is

the chemistry of things

my friend, the parking lot attendant

a non-urgent poem

my first affair with that older woman

the freeway life

p.o. box 11946, Fresno, Calif. 93776

for my ivy league friends:

helping the old

bad times at the 3rd and Vermont hotel

the Master Plan

my vanishing act

let’s make a deal

16-bit Intel 8088 chip

the crazy truth

drive through hell

for the concerned:

the finest of the breed

close to greatness

friends within the darkness

death sat on my knee and cracked with laughter

O tempora! O mores!

the passing of a great one

the wine of forever

I thought the stuff tasted worse than usual

I’m not a misogynist

the lady in the castle

relentless as the tarantula

it’s funny, isn’t it? #1

it’s funny, isn’t it? #2

the beautiful lady editor

about the PEN conference

everybody talks too much

me and my buddy

love poem to a stripper

the magic curse

wearing the collar

a cat is a cat is a cat is a cat

marching through Georgia

I meet the famous poet

the shrinking island

those girls we followed home

a tragic meeting

an ordinary poem

from an old dog in his cups…

trying to make it

the death of a splendid neighborhood

you get so alone at times that it just makes sense

a good gang, after all

late late late poem

someday I’m going to write a primer for crippled saints but meanwhile

sticks and stones…

our laughter is muted by their agony

what am I doing?

how is your heart?

About the Author

Other Books by Charles Bukowski

About the Publisher

listening to Wagner

as outside in the dark the wind blows a cold rain the

trees wave and shake lights go

off and on the walls creak and the cats run under the

Wagner battles the agonies, he’s emotional but

solid, he’s the supreme fighter, a giant in a world of

pygmies, he takes it straight on through, he breaks

astonishing FORCE of sound as

everything here shakes

in fierce gamble

yes, Wagner and the storm intermix with the wine as

nights like this run up my wrists and up into my head and

back down into the

and some men never

but we’re all alive

naturally, we are all caught in

downmoods, it’s a matter of

and an existence

seems to forbid

any real chance at

I was in a downmood

when this rich pig

along with his blank

in this red Mercedes

at racetrack parking.

it clicked inside of me

I’m going to pull that fucker

out of his car and

into Valet parking

parked behind him

and jumped from my

I rapped on the window

“open up! I’m gonna

he just sat there

they wouldn’t look

he was 30 years

but I knew I could

he was soft and

I beat on the window

“come on out, shithead,

or I’m going
to start

he gave a small nod

I saw her reach

and slip him the

I saw him hold it

and snap off the

clubhouse, it looked

like a damned good

all I had to do

pork chops, said my father, I love

and I watched him slide the grease

pancakes, he said, pancakes with

syrup, butter and bacon!

I watched his lips heavy wetted with

coffee, he said, I like coffee so hot

it burns my throat!

sometimes it was too hot and he spit it

out across the table.

mashed potatoes and gravy, he said, I

love mashed potatoes and gravy!

he jowled that in, his cheeks puffed as

if he had the mumps.

chili and beans, he said, I love chili and

and he gulped it down and farted for hours

loudly, grinning after each fart.

strawberry shortcake, he said, with vanilla

ice cream, that’s the way to end a meal!

he always talked about retirement, about

what he was going to do when he

when he wasn’t talking about food he talked

on and on about

he never made it to retirement, he died one day while

standing at the sink

filling a glass of water.

he straightened like he’d been

the glass fell from his hand

and he dropped backwards

his necktie slipping to the

people said they couldn’t believe

sideburns, pack of smokes in his

shirt pocket, always cracking

jokes, maybe a little

loud and maybe with a bit of bad

a seemingly sound

never missing a day

in this steamy a.m. Hades claps its Herpes hands and

a woman sings through my radio, her voice comes clambering

through the smoke, and the wine fumes…

it’s a lonely time, she sings, and you’re not

mine and it makes me feel so bad,

this thing of being me…

I can hear cars on the freeway, it’s like a distant sea

sludged with people

while over my other shoulder, far over on 7th street

is the hospital, that house of agony—

sheets and bedpans and arms and heads and

everything is so sweetly awful, so continuously and

sweetly awful: the art of consummation: life eating

once in a dream I saw a snake swallowing its own

tail, it swallowed and swallowed until

it got halfway round, and there it stopped and

there it stayed, it was stuffed with its own

self. some fix, that.

we only have ourselves to go on, and it’s

I go downstairs for another bottle, switch on the

cable and there’s Greg Peck pretending he’s

F. Scott and he’s very excited and he’s reading his

manuscript to his lady.

what kind of writer is that? reading his pages to

a lady? this is a violation…

I return upstairs and my two cats follow me, they are

fine fellows, we have no discontent, we have no

arguments, we listen to the same music, never vote for a

one of my cats, the big one, leaps on the back

of my chair, rubs against my shoulders and

“no good,” I tell him, “I’m not going

to read you this

he leaps to the floor and walks out to the

balcony and his buddy

they sit and watch the night; we’ve got the

power of sanity here.

these early a.m. mornings when almost everybody

is asleep, small night bugs, winged things

enter, and circle and whirl.

the machine hums its electric hum, and having

opened and tasted the new bottle I type the next

can read it to your lady and she’ll probably tell you

it’s nonsense. she’ll be

reading Tender Is the

beasts bounding through time—

Van Gogh writing his brother for paints

Hemingway testing his shotgun

Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine

the impossibility of being human

Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief

Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town

the impossibility of being human

Burroughs killing his wife with a gun

Mailer stabbing his

the impossibility of being human

Maupassant going mad in a rowboat

Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot

Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller

Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato

Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun

Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops

Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench

Chatterton drinking rat poison

Shakespeare a plagiarist

Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness

the impossibility the impossibility

Nietzsche gone totally mad

the impossibility of being human

these mad dogs of glory

moving this little bit of light toward

the wind blows hard tonight

and it’s a cold wind

and I think about

the boys on the row.

I hope some of them have a bottle

it’s when you’re on the row

that you notice that

and that there are locks on

this is the way a democracy

you get what you can,

try to keep that

this is the way a dictatorship

only they either enslave or

the lost generation

have been reading a book about a rich literary lady