I did not know
that the Mexicans
did this:
the bull had been brave
and now they dragged him
dead
around the ring
by his tail,
a brave bull
dead,
but not just another bull,
this was a special bull,
and to me a special
lesson…
and although Brahms
stole his First from Beethoven’s
9th.
and although
the bull
was dead
his head and his horns and
his insides dead,
he had been better than
Brahms,
as good as
Beethoven,
and
as we walked out
the sound and meaning
of him
kept crawling up my arms
and although people bumped me and
stepped on my toes
the bull burned within me
my candle of
jesus,
dragged by his tail
he had nothing to do
having done it all,
and through the long tunnels and minatory glances,
the elbows and feet and eyes, I prayed for California,
and the dead bull
in man
and in me,
and I clasped my hands
deep within my
pockets, seized darkness,
and moved on.
—Charles Bukowski
