On Cats
书名：On Cats
作者：Charles Bukowski
[1]
I saw that bird and my hands were on the steering wheel and I saw the wings and they were down like broken love, the wings said that, and the cat moved away from the wheels of my car that way a cat moves and I’m sick as I write this, and all the broken love of the world and all the broken love birds, and the sky said this covered with smog and cheap clouds and miscreant gods.
[2]
There are no spirits or gods in a cat, don’t look for them, Shed. A cat is the picture of the eternal machinery, like the sea. You don’t pet the sea because it’s pretty but you pet a cat—why?—ONLY BECAUSE HE’LL LET YOU. And a cat never knows fear—finally—he only winds up into the spring of the sea and the rock, and even in a death-fight he does not think of anything except the majesty of darkness.
[3]
sitting here by the window
sweating beer sweat
mauled by the summer
I am looking at the cat’s balls.
it’s not my choice.
he sleeps in an old rocker
on the porch
and there he looks at me—
from behind—
hung to his cat’s balls.
there’s his tail, damned thing,
hanging out of the
way—
I view his furry storage tanks—
what can a man think about
while looking at a cat’s nuts?
certainly not the sunken navies of
great sea battles.
certainly not a program to aid the
poor.
certainly not a flower market or a dozen
eggs.
certainly not a broken light switch.
balls iz balls, that’s all—
[4]
TV can make me ill in five minutes, but I can look at an animal for hours and find nothing but grace and glory, life as it should be.
[5]
wearing the collar
I live with a lady and four cats
and some days we all get
along.
some days I have trouble with
one of the
cats.
other days I have trouble with
two of the
cats.
other days,
three.
some days I have trouble with
all four of the
cats
and the
lady:
ten eyes looking at me
as if I were a dog.
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