Bukowski on the movies

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in and out of the dark

my wife likes movie houses, the popcorn and soft drinks, the 

settling into seats, she finds a child's delight in 

this and I am happy for her---but really, I myself, I must have

come from another place, I must have been a mole in another 

life, something that burrowed and hid alone:

the other people crowded in the seats, near and far, give me

feelings that I dislike; it's stupid, maybe, but there it

is; and then

there's the darkness and then the 

giant human faces, bodies, that move about on the screen, they

speak and we 

listen.

of one hundred movies there's one that's fair, one that's good 

and ninety eight that are very bad. 

most movies start badly and steadily 

get worse;

if you can believe the actions and speech of 

the characters 

you might even believe that the popcorn you chew also

has a meaning of 

sorts.

(well, it might be that people see so many movies

that when they finally see one not 

so bad as the others, they think it's 

great. an Academy Award means that you don't stink 

quite as much as your cousin.)

the movie ends and we are out in the street, moving 

toward the car; "well," says my wife, "it wasn't as

 good as they say."

"no," I say, "it wasn't."

"there were a few good parts, though," she replies.

"yeah," I answer.

we are at the car, get in, then I am driving us out 

of that part of town; we look around at the night;

the night looks good.

"you hungry?" she asks.

"yes. you?" 

we stop at a signal; I watch the red light;

I could eat that red light---anything, anything at  

all to fill the void; millions of dollars spent to create

something more terrible then the actual lives of

most living things; one should never have to pay an 

admission to hell.

the light changes and we escape, 

forward

[from The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992), Black Sparrow Press