i can't stay in the same room with that woman for five minutes lyrics

I went over the other day

to pick up my daughter.

her mother came out with workman’s

overalls on.

I gave her the child support money

and she laid a sheaf of poems on me by one

Manfred Anderson.

I read them.

he’s great, she said.

does he send this shit out? I asked.

oh no, she said, Manfred wouldn’t do that.

why?

well, I don’t know exactly.

listen, I said, you know all the poets who

don’t send their shit out.

the magazines aren’t ready for them, she said,

they’re too far advanced for publication.

oh for christ’s sake, I said, do you really

believe that?

yes, yes, I really believe that, she

answered.

look, I said, you don’t even have the kid ready

yet. she doesn’t have her shoes on. can’t you

put her shoes on?

your daughter is 8 years old, she said,

she can put her own shoes on.

listen, I said to my daughter, for christ’s sake

will you put your shoes on?

Manfred never screams, said her mother.

OH HOLY JESUS CHRIST! I yelled

you see, you see? she said, you haven’t changed.

what time is it? I asked.

4:30. Manfred did submit some poems once, she said,

but they sent them back and he was terribly

upset.

you’ve got your shoes on, I said to my daughter,

let’s go.

her mother walked to the door with us.

have a nice day, she said.

fuck off, I said.

when she closed the door there was a sign pasted to

the outside. it said:

SMILE.

I didn’t.

we drove down Pico on the way in.

I stopped outside the Red Ox.

I’ll be right back, I told my daughter.

I walked in, sat down, and ordered a scotch and

water. over the bar there was a little guy popping in and

out of a door holding a very red, curved penis

in his hand.

can’t

can’t you make him stop? I asked the barkeep.

can’t you shut that thing off?

what’s the matter with you, buddy? he asked.

I submit my poems to the magazines, I said.

you submit your poems to the magazines? he asked.

you are god damned right I do, I said.

I finished my drink and got back to the car.

I drove down Pico Boulevard.

the remainder of the day was bound to be better.

• Artist:Charles Bukowski