the greatest actor of our day

he's getting fatter and fatter,
almost bald
he has a wisp of hair
in the back
which he twists
and holds
with a rubber band.

he's got a place in the hills
and he's got a place in the
islands
and few people ever see
him.
some consider him the greatest
actor of our
day.

he has few friends, a
very few.
with them, his favorite
pastime is
eating.

at rare times he is reached
by telephone
usually
with an offer to act
in an exceptional (he's
told)
motion picture.

he answers in a very soft
voice:

"oh, no, i don't want to
make any more movies..."

"can we send you the
screenplay?"

"all right..."

then
he's not heard from
again.

usually
what he and his few friends
do
after eating
(if the night is cold)
is to have a few drinks
and watch the screenplays
burn
in the fireplace.

or
after eating (on
warm evenings)
after a few
drinks
the screenplays
are taken
frozen
out of cold
storage.
he hands some
to his friends
keeps some
then
together
from the veranda
they toss them
like flying saucers
far out
into the spacious
canyon below.

then
they all go
back in
knowing instinctively
that the screenplays
were
bad. (at least,
he senses it and
they
accept
that.)

it's a real good
world
up there:
well-earned, self-
sufficient
and
hardly
dependent
upon the
variables.

there's
all that time
to eat
drink
and
wait on death
like
everybody
else.

-charles bukowski