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- Чарльз Буковски
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"
No
,
Tessie
,
thank
you
.
"
That
did
it
.
I
couldn
’
t
even
make
amends
.
Constipation
of
Confession
.
Lack
of
Communication
.
I
had
Enemies
in
High
Places
.
I
drank
another
wine
.
I
had
been
ready
to
clear
the
air
and
let
everything
hang
out
.
Now
I
had
to
sit
on
it
.
I
felt
worse
and
worse
.
Depression
,
suicide
was
often
the
lack
of
a
proper
diet
.
But
I
had
been
eating
well
.
I
remembered
the
old
days
,
living
on
one
candy
bar
a
day
,
sending
out
hand
-
printed
stories
to
Atlantic
Monthly
and
Harper
’
s
.
All
I
thought
about
was
food
.
If
the
body
didn
’
t
eat
,
the
mind
starved
too
.
But
I
had
been
eating
damned
good
,
for
a
change
,
and
drinking
damned
good
wine
.
That
meant
that
what
I
was
thinking
was
probably
the
truth
.
Everybody
imagined
themselves
special
,
privileged
,
exempt
.
Even
an
ugly
old
crone
watering
a
geranium
on
her
front
porch
.
I
had
imagined
myself
special
because
I
had
come
out
of
the
factories
at
the
age
of
5
o
and
become
a
poet
.
Hot
shit
.
So
I
pissed
on
everybody
just
like
those
bosses
and
managers
had
pissed
on
me
when
I
was
helpless
.
It
came
to
the
same
thing
.
I
was
a
drunken
spoiled
rotten
fucker
with
a
very
minor
minor
fame
.
My
analysis
didn
’
t
cure
the
burn
.
The
phone
rang
.
It
was
Sara
.
"
You
said
you
’
d
phone
.
What
happened
?
"
"
She
wasn
’
t
in
.
"
"
Not
in
?
"
"
She
’
s
in
court
.
"
