he was another
bonehead
who thought that
once his book was out
the world
was gonna come
banging on his door,
wanting
to hear him
read his poems
and
tell them
his theories on life,
love, sadness, goodness
and
why his poems
were the only ones
in the world worth reading.
it didn’t happen.
there
was a paragraph
in the local newspaper
and that was it.
he did a
book signing
at an art gallery
and no one showed
except the owner and his wife,
his niece
and a couple of kids
who walked in to get out of the rain.
the kids
smelled like wet dogs
and laughed at the paintings
and left.
there
was a table
in the back, with
a tray of cookies that
not even the kids would eat...
a bottle of
wine and a bowl
of ice that was starting to melt.
he read
somewhere
(maybe in Proust)
that the word nostalgia
comes
from the Greek
for homecoming and pain.
now,
if he could only figure out
why losing her hurt so god damn much.
i pulled
the poster
advertising my reading
off
the wall
of the book store
where
i just got done
reading for at most
20 bored, indifferent people.
other than
the cashier and the
owner, i was the last one to leave.
it was dark as hell outside.
the night
was cold and i
couldn’t wait to get
in the car and drive back home.
this is not
a poem
by, for or about
Charles Bukowski.
he is not
on my radar
and
his poems
no longer speak
to me the way they used to.
truth be told,
the only thing his
poems do for me now
is
show me
that he’s dead,
i'm not...
and
some day
soon will be.
i think
the time that
you’re the most
beautiful is when
your face is swollen
from sleep, and your hair
is matted and messed and i
stand at the side of the bed, the
king of all i am and all i have and
all
i will
ever be.
she loves daisies
i'm not
very good
at remembering that.
on those
rare occasions
when i DO
bring flowers
it’s usually
roses,
or those 3 dollar bundles
from the market.
never daisies.
and never
at the right moment.
it’s usually
for something i did,
forgot
to do,
or should have done.
and
when it IS
daisies...
when i'm
putting them
in a vase
and adding water,
i can’t help
thinking
about
bees.
they don’t get it, do they?
not saying
more than
twenty words
to each other
the whole afternoon,
we planted and
hosed and
scrubbed
the entire yard,
getting the place
ready for summer.
when we were done,
your shoes
and jeans
were soaked...
my hands were sore
and my neck
was stiff.
we came in the house,
ate a salad
and fell asleep
in front of the tv.
this is the gift...
and i am
one of the few
lucky enough to have solved
its mystery.
the poems weren’t
working,
i felt drained...
hot...
dry...
useless...
there was nothing
for me to do
but
go out in the yard
and listen to
a fat bald guy
who lives in the back
fighting with his wife.
i couldn’t make out
most of what they said
except when
she called him
“a damn fool for
being normal”.
on that point
i had to
agree with her,
if i were a gentleman
i would have stood
just then
and thanked her
for giving me
this poem.
but
i didn’t.
i just lay there,
listening,
while the dogs of the world barked
and doors slammed
and order
was finally
restored.
he cut
both
his wrists
and
his throat.
he
locked
the doors and
turned on the gas...
they
couldn’t
figure out if it was
uncontrolled rage
or just another example
of compulsive thoroughness.
so, here i am again,
stuck
in the middle
of another poetry war.
the New Formalists,
who are always more structured,
prepared
and organized,
seem
to be winning,
but,
we on the
Radical Left,
we have no rules.
we’re
better at
thinking on our feet.
we’re happy
to make it up along the way.
unlike
our enemies on the Right,
we’re
ready, willing and able
(no matter how high the building we’re in)
to
jump out
any window
that’s left open.
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