here I'm supposed to be a great poet
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon 
here I am aware of death like a giant bull 
charging at me 
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon 
here I'm aware of wars and men fighting in the ring 
and I'm aware of good food and wine and good women 
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon 
I'm aware of a woman's love
and I'm sleepy in the afternoon, 
I lean into the sunlight behind a yellow curtain 
I wonder where the summer flies have gone 
I remember the most bloody death of Hemingway and 
I'm sleepy in the afternoon. 

some day I won't be sleepy in the afternoon 
some day I'll write a poem that will bring volcanoes 
to the hills out there 
but right now I'm sleepy in the afternoon 
and somebody asks me, "Bukowski, what time is it?" 
and I say, "3:16 and a half." 
I feel very guilty, I feel obnoxious, useless, 
demented, I feel 
sleepy in the afternoon, 
they are bombing the churches, o.k., that's o.k., 
the libraries are filled with thousands of books of knowledge, 
great music sits inside the nearby radio 
and I am sleepy in the afternoon, 
I have this tomb within myself that says, 
ah, let the others do it, let them win, 
let me sleep,
the wisdom is in the dark
sweeping through the dark like brooms, 
I'm going where the summer flies have gone, 
try to catch me. 

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