Aldo Pacheco ~ A sow with suckling piglets

don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me
at the racetrack any day half drunk
betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,
but let me tell you, there are some women there
who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you
look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores
you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke
dealing out so much breast and ass and the way
it’s all hung together, you look and you look and
you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women
and then there is something else that wants to make you
tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven
across the back of the john; anyhow, the season
was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,
all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,
the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners
themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:
a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;
he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly
and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.
the driver broke him wide
took him out by the fence where he’d be alone
even if he had to travel four times as far,
and that’s the way he went it
all the way by the outer fence
traveling two miles in one
and he won like he was mad as hell
and he wasn’t even tired,
and the biggest blonde of all
all ass and breast, hardly anything else
went to the payoff window with me.
that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.

later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?
and I said
I’m a poet
and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.
you? you . . . a poet?
I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.
but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,
and all thanks to an ugly horse
who wrote this poem.

340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore

By Charles Bukowski

The Eraser by Christian Scott

An aside …

One of the more pleasurable parts of any given day happens when I decide to post something from the past on Pixels. I pick a month and look around. I fix broken image links if I have time. Mostly I just look at the pictures and think about what was going on in my life when they came in.

I have to say it’s pretty cool having such a vast trove of art to explore and I encourage you to do the same anytime you want to get away from the hubbub.

Then I see one I want to republish. There’s no rhyme or reason: as I’ve said many times, I’m not trying to make anything happen anymore. I’m just having fun.

I come across a picture like Aldo’s pigs. And it was a {daily pic} so I decide to take a look and I see the poem by Charles Bukowski and the super-cool jazz piece by Christian Scott.

And then I wonder, “What the heck do either the poem or the song have to do with a momma pig and her babies? What was I thinking?”

No answers come.

Originally posted August 19, 2014.

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