author bios

i wonder
what
bukowski’s
author bio
would read
like
if he had
to make
his own
like we all
do now.
probably
be covered
in shit
& piss,
beer
& hangovers.
something abt.
how the
razor strop
molded him
into
a writer.
maybe
he’d mention
his 2 yrs.
at LA
city college,
but doubt it.
one thing
i know:
he would
hate it
like i do.

 

v-day

the flamboyant kid
in the coffee shop
doing his best
to make sure
everyone
hears him.
young kids,
babies
cycle through.
he is
emphatic
about the f-bomb.
i say
something
to my wife
that is
not meant
for him
but he
overhears it.
interjects
into our
conversation.
you can
tell
he is one
of those
ultra-left
instagram babies
who lives
to die
on that mountain.

“kid,”
i say.

“don’t stick
your nose
in other peoples’
butts
to sniff around
where it don’t
belong.”

“oh, don’t!
great grammar
you fucking
prick!”

i smile
at him.
satisfied
by the size
of his balls
that haven’t
dropped yet.

“why
don’t you
mind
your own
fucking business
and not worry
about
what the fuck
i say?”

my wife
kicks me
under the table
to steady
my excitement.
i’m surprised
she hasn’t
leaped up
and clobbered
him yet.
she sees
a twinkle
in my eye.
other eyes
scour us.
the music
is cut.
i get up
and walk past
his table
to the
coffee bar.
grab a container
of hand sanitizer.
walk back
to his table
and pump
a few shots
into his cup.

“just
what the fuck
do you think
you’re doing,
mister?”

mister.
good one.
he makes
for the coffee
in an attempt
to heave it
at me
but i rifle
the container
in time
to knock
the cup
from his hands.
it splatters
on him.
he squeals
like it’s blood.
he’s lucky
it’s not.

“wash out
your mouth 
you fucking
prick.”

i turn
to the mother
of a young child.

“sorry.”

both
of their mouths
hang agape.

“let’s go,”
i say to
my wife.
she is
smiling.
i am going
to get
the best head
ever tonight.
happy valentine’s
day
to me.