Charles Bukowski - Crucifix In A Deathhand lyrics

Yes, they begin out in a willow, I think
The starch mountains begin out in the willow
And keep right on going without regard for
Pumas and nectarines
Somehow these mountains are like
An old woman with a bad memory and
A shopping basket
We are in a basin that is the
Idea down in the sand and the alleys
This land punched-in, cuffed-out, divided
Held like a crucifix in a deathhand
This land bought, resold, bought again and
Sold again, the wars long over
The Spaniards all the way back in Spain
Down in the thimble again, and now
Real estaters, subdividers, landlords
Freeway
Engineers arguing this is their land and
I walk on it, live on it a little while
Near Hollywood here I see young men in rooms
Listening to glazed recordings
And I think too of old men sick of music
Sick of everything, and death like suicide
I think is sometimes voluntary
And to get your hold on the land here it is
Best to return to the
Grand Central Market, see the
Old Mexican women, The poor i am sure
You have seen these same women
Many years before arguing
With the same young Japanese clerks
Witty, knowledgeable and golden
Among their soaring store of oranges, apples
Avocados, tomatoes, cucumbers -
And you know how these look
They do look good
As if you could eat them all
Light a cigar and smoke away the bad world
Then it's best to go back to the bars
The same bars
Wooden, stale, merciless, green
With the young policeman walking through
Scared and looking for trouble
And the beer is still bad
It has an edge that already
Mixes with vomit and
Decay, and you've got to be
Strong in the shadows to ignore it
To ignore the poor and to ignore yourself
And the shopping bag between your legs
Down there feeling good with
It's avocados and
Oranges and fresh fish and wine bottles
Who needs a Fort Lauderdale winter?
25 years ago there used to be a whore there
With a film over one eye, who was too fat
And made little silver bells out of cigarette
Tinfoil the sun seemed warmer then
Although this was probably not
True, and you take your shopping bag
Outside and walk along the street
And the green beer hangs there
Just above your stomach like
A short and shameful shawl, and
You look around and no longer see any
Old men