The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain

Charles Bukowski

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061979750
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

The second of five new books of unpublished poems from the late, great, Charles Bukowski, America's most imitated and influential poet –– 143 never–before–seen works of gritty, amusing, and inspiring verse.

part 1.

I watch the old ladies

in the supermarket,

angry and alone.

German

being the German kid in the 20’s in Los Angeles

was difficult.

there was much anti-German feeling then,

a carry-over from World War I.

gangs of kids chased me through the neighborhood

yelling, “Hienie! Hienie! Hienie!”

they never caught me.

I was like a cat.

I knew all the paths through brush and alleys.

I scaled 6-foot back fences in a flash and was off through

backyards and around blocks

and onto garage roofs and other hiding places.

then too, they didn’t really want to catch me.

they were afraid I might bayonet them

or gouge out their eyes.

this went on for about 18 months

then all of a sudden it seemed to stop.

I was more or less accepted (but never really)

which was all right with me.

those sons-of-bitches were Americans,

they and their parents had been born here.

they had names like Jones and Sullivan and

Baker.

they were pale and often fat with runny

noses and big belt buckles.

I decided never to become an American.

my hero was Baron Manfred von Richthofen

the German air ace;

he’d shot down 80 of their best

and there was nothing they could do about

that now.

their parents didn’t like my parents

(I didn’t either) and

I decided when I got big I’d go live in some place

like Iceland,

never open my door to anybody and live on my

luck, live with a beautiful wife and a bunch of wild

animals:

which is, more or less, what

happened.

the old girl

she was very thin, gray, bent, and each day she

waited at the door of the

First Interstate Bank in San Pedro,

and as the people came and went she

approached them

one by one

and asked for money.

about 75% of the time

I respond to those who ask but with

the other 25% I am instinctively put off

and just don’t have the will to

give.

the frail old woman at the bank put me off, she had

put me off for some time and we had a silent

understanding: I would lift my hand in a

gesture of protest and she would turn quickly

away. this had happened so often

that now she remembers and doesn’t

approach me.

one noon I sat in my car and watched

her

and after 20 attempts she scored

17 times.

I drove off as she was approaching yet another

soft touch, and even so I

suddenly felt real guilt for my unfeeling habit of

refusing the old

girl.

later in the clubhouse at Hollywood

park

between the 6^th and 7^th races

I saw her again as she was going up the

aisle

frail and bent, a large wad of

paper money clutched tight in a bony hand

clearly on her way to

bet the next race.

of course, she had every right to

be there,

to place her bets with the rest of us,

she only wanted and needed

what most people want and need:

a chance.

I watched as she

reached the top of the aisle and

I saw her stop and speak to a young man

who smiled and then

handed her a

bill.

not ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3
• Part 4
• About the Author
• By Charles Bukowski
• Copyright
• About the Publisher