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    • POEM: The History Of One Tough Motherfucker by Charles Bukowski (5/3/2007 3:44:00 PM)

      sorry had to amend this as it was bugging the hell out of me.
      here is the whole thing.

      he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
      a white cross-eyed tailless cat
      I took him in and fed him and he stayed
      grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
      and ran him over
      I took what was left to a vet who said, 'not much
      chance...give him these pills...his backbone
      is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
      mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
      these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
      are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody
      cut it off...'

      I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
      hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
      floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
      wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
      and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
      where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
      him and gently touched him and he looked back at
      me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
      by he made his first move
      dragging himself forward by his front legs
      (the rear ones wouldn't work)
      he made it to the litter box
      crawled over and in,
      it was like the trumpet of possible victory
      blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
      related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
      bad but bad enough

      one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
      just looked at me.

      'you can make it, ' I said to him.

      he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
      he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
      rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
      then got up.

      you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
      almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
      his eyes never left...

      and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
      life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
      shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say, 'look, look
      at this! '

      but they don't understand, they say something like, 'you
      say you've been influenced by Celine? '

      'no, ' I hold the cat up, 'by what happens, by
      things like this, by this, by this! '

      I shake the cat, hold him up in
      the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...

      it's then that the interviews end
      although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
      later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
      graphed together.

      he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

      hope this isnt copy write violation or 'owt.