From The Rooming House Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966 (1988), Black Sparrow
Press
Its Not Who Lived Here, by Charles Bukowski
but who died here;
and it's not when but how; it's not the known great but the great who died unknown; it's not the history of countries but the lives of men. fables are dreams, not lies, and truth changes as men change, and when truth becomes stable men will become dead and the insect and the fire and the flood will become truth 4:30 A.M, by Charles Bukowski
the fields rattle
with red birds; it is 4:30 in the morning, it is always 4:30 in the morning, and I listen for my friends: the garbagemen and the thieves, and cats dreaming red birds and red birds dreaming worms, and worms dreaming along the bones of my love, and I cannot sleep, and soon morning will come, the workers will rise, and they will look for me at the docks, and they will say, "he is drunk again," but I will be asleep, finally, among the bottles and sunlight, all darkness gone, my arms spread like a cross, the red birds flying, flying, roses opening in the smoke, and like something stabbed and healing, like 40 pages through a bad novel, a smile upon my idiot's face.