just like Buk

reading Bukowski
and I don’t want
to knock him
too much
but,
upon reading a couple of
biographies
about him
it seems that
all of the times
he wrote about
working in
slaughterhouses,
he actually only
did half a shift
in one.

literally
hundreds of poems mention
sleeping on
park benches,
this happened
less than a handful of times,
apparently,

I’ve slept rough
once or twice,
having walked out
on my missus and
having nowhere
else to go.
expect to see it
in my poems
for the next forty years or so.

Business Professionals

They didn’t even make love
face-to-face anymore.

Just sex
in the dark
when they are drunk.
Thinking of others
to get off.

But they stay together
for the finances.

It is very sad.
Each saving up to afford
the absence of
the other.

Was I Insane?

I spent years trying to get over here
I don’t know if I ever did
I don’t know if I ever will
She still has a starring role in my dreams
sometimes, just to torture me upon waking.
I cringe when I remember all the petty,
childish ways I tried to hurt her, but at the
time it didn’t feel like that. I felt like I was
fighting for my sanity, or my life.
I thought that if she didn’t take notice of me I’d fade away to nothingnes. If she loved
me or hated me, I had to know that I mattered
to her. Was I insane? Probably. Some women can do that to you. It doesn’t have anything to do with how strong
you think you are. Some women
just get under your skin,
just like scabies.

Modern Day
Toilet Reading

It was refreshing
to see Dostoyevsky
staring back at me
in that dirty,
but lemon scented
bathroom.

In bygone days
I would
have called you
a filthy fuck if
I’d found a book
in your bathroom –
whilst
simultaneously
knowing
that deep down,
I couldn’t
be friends
witah anyone
who didn’t toilet read.

Nowadays it just
felt incredible
to find another place
where books were
still being
read.

New Orleans Pride

 

it was a long Labor Day weekend

although weekends never feel long

I took a few days off in

preparation for said weekend

that Wednesday I hurt my knee bad

so I hobbled with every step

fucking great, I thought

I’m going to have to do

a lot of walking this weekend

Thursday

I took the dog to the vet

I watched as my dog took shots

like a champion

a cute blonde with a lip piercing

and tight scrubs hugged my dog tight

and let him lick her in the mouth

as the doctor shot him up with drugs

and inserted a long cylindrical tube

into his anus for a fecal test

this lucky bastard, I thought

tests were negative

the dog healthy

I emptied my wallet and

we went on our way

Friday

the wife and I left for Ocean Springs

ate great barbeque

drank good bourbon and soaked

in a large tub by the bed

the next day we went to an

art walk where I purchased

an original piece from a hipster

I won’t hold that against him

because his work is amazing

we then headed for Biloxi

we gambled a little

ate a lot

and saw the comedian

we were there to see

I had strong drinks from the bar

and weak drinks at the slots

I ran into a coworker who was

feeding machines with hundred after hundred

“push it” he told me

“maybe your lucky”

I wasn’t

I never am

Sunday

we drove to New Orleans

as we were getting off on our exit

I turned to my wife and said

“I just remembered, it’s pride weekend”

we made our way toward the hotel bar

rumors have it that Bukowski stayed

there when he was in his twenties

we found a spot on the street to park

less than a block away

we entered the bar and ordered drinks

as we drank we watched

girls and guys walk by with wings attached

dressed in wigs, dresses or much less

I ordered another round and

we decided to take a walk

I fired up a cigar as we walked

I knew what they were probably thinking

me sucking on a long brown stick

many males and females in thongs

and jockstraps

chest harnesses abound

no problems among thousands of people

everyone was so festive and joyous

dancing, laughing, and singing

it’s then I realized how they

probably got their title

I was proud of New Orleans once again

The Wooden Bench

 I want to tug at the skin on my collar bone,

 as if it were a loose cloth shirt,

 and send air deep into the cavity of my chest,

 where the nuns rest,

 and the priest preaches,

 and I am somewhere

stuck

 on a wooden bench

 torn between

 an enthused spirituality and some well-needed sleep.

“Tomorrow is Eight Hours Away”

I never crave to close my eyes

Because it means the next day

Will come before I know it,

Before I want it.

Why dream my life away

When I can live it,

When I can absorb it?

But the pillow is so soft,

The sheets are so silky,

And my frigid feet

Need the protection only a flannel blanket can provide.

Tomorrow is eight hours away.

I wish it would take its time arriving.

There is too much to do, say, learn and fix.

Yet I would rather be overwhelmed

By sleep

Than life.

What Works No. 25.


 

“If you go carrying round pictures of Chairman Mao . . .”

 

Some kid came to our bargaining unit,

talked Marx, socialism, lots of bullshit.

We said, listen, man,

we’ll get what we can,

but as for your politics, forget it.

The cold alone

 

 

You are a grinning madness,
standing there in chill moonlight.
Why then so much sadness?

The bottle drained inside a mess,
howling there through sleepless night.
You are a grinning madness.

When these are gone I’ll have some rest,
the cold alone and hidden from sight.
Why then so much sadness?

I must consume drink-drink to dress,
a boy now lowered, cornered in fright.
You are a grinning madness.

Red peaks through the changing crest,
bringing forth the snarled fight.
Why then so much sadness?

You carry off the iron-warm west,
hunting breath lit up as light.
You are a grinning madness.
Why then so much sadness?