some notes on Bach and Haydn

Charles Bukowski

it is quite smth to turn your radio on
low
at 4:30 in the morning
in an apartment house
and hear Haydn
while through the blinds
you can see only the black night
as beautiful and quiet
like a flower.
and with that
smth to drink,
of course,
a cigarette,
and the heater going,
and Haydn going.
maybe just 35 people
in a city of millions listening
as you are lstening now,
looking at the walls,
smoking quietly,
not hating anything,
ot wanting anyhing.
existing like mercury
you listen to a dead man’s music
at 4:30 in the morning,
only he is not really dead
as the smoke from your cigarette curls up,
is not really dead,
and all is magic,
this good sound
in Los Angeles.
but now a siren takes the air,
some trouble, murder, robbery, death…
but Haydn goes on
and you listen,
one of the finest mornings of your life
like some of those when you werevery young
with stupid lunch pail
and sleepy eyes
riding the early bus to the railroad yards
to scrub the windows and the sides of trains
with a brush and oakite
but knowing
all the while
you would take the longest gamble,
and now having taken it,
still alive,
poor but strong,
knowing Haydn at 4:30 a.m.,
the only way to know him,
the blinds down
and the black night
the cigarette
and in my hands this pen
writing in a notebook
(my typewriter at this hour would
scream like a raped bear)
and
now
smehow
knowing the way
warmly and gently
finally
as Haydn ends.
and then a voice tells me
where I can get bacon and eggs,
orange juice, toast, coffee
this very morning
for a pleasant price
and I like this man
for telling me this
after Haydn
and I want to get dressed
nd go out and find the waitress
and eat bacon and eggs
and lift the coffee cup to my mouth,
but I am distracted:
the voice tlls me that Bach
will be next: “Brandenburg Concerto No. 2
in F major,”
so I go into the kitchen for a
new can of beer.
may this night never see morning
as finally one night will not,
but I do suppose morning will come this day
asking its hard way -
the cars jammed on freeways,
faces as horrible as unflushed excreta,
trapped lives less then beautiful love,
and I walk out
knowing the way
cold beer can in hand
as Bach begins
and
this good night
is still everywhere.