Archives for posts with tag: gambling

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I LIKE YOUR BOOKS
by Charles Bukowski

In the betting line the other

day

man behind me asked,

“are you Henry 
Chinaski?”

 
“uh huh,” I answered.


 
“I like your books,” he went

on.


 
“thanks,” I answered.


 
“who do you like in this

race?” he asked.


 
“uh uh,” I answered.


“I like the 4 horse,” he

told me.


 
I made my bet and went back

to my seat….


 
the next race I am standing in

line and here is this same man

standing behind me

again.

there are at least 50 lines at

the windows but

he has to find mine

again.


 
“I think this race favors the

closers,” he said to the back of

my neck. “the track looks

heavy.”


 
“listen,” I said, not looking

around, “it’s the kiss of death to

talk about horses at the

track…”


 
“what kind of rule is that?”

he asked. “God doesn’t make

rules…”


 
I turned around and looked at him:

“maybe not, but I

do.”


 
after the next race

I got in line, glanced behind

me:

he was not there:


 
lost another reader.


 
I lose 2 or 3 each

week.


 
fine.


 
let ’em go back to

Kafka.

Photo: Charles Bukowski picking his horses at the race track.

Image
I LIKE YOUR BOOKS
by Charles Bukowski

In the betting line the other

day

man behind me asked,

“are you Henry 
Chinaski?”

 
“uh huh,” I answered.


 
“I like your books,” he went

on.


 
“thanks,” I answered.


 
“who do you like in this

race?” he asked.


 
“uh uh,” I answered.


“I like the 4 horse,” he

told me.


 
I made my bet and went back

to my seat….


 
the next race I am standing in

line and here is this same man

standing behind me

again.

there are at least 50 lines at

the windows but

he has to find mine

again.


 
“I think this race favors the

closers,” he said to the back of

my neck. “the track looks

heavy.”


 
“listen,” I said, not looking

around, “it’s the kiss of death to

talk about horses at the

track…”


 
“what kind of rule is that?”

he asked. “God doesn’t make

rules…”


 
I turned around and looked at him:

“maybe not, but I

do.”


 
after the next race

I got in line, glanced behind

me:

he was not there:


 
lost another reader.


 
I lose 2 or 3 each

week.


 
fine.


 
let ’em go back to

Kafka.

Photo: Charles Bukowski picking his horses at the race track.