Bukowski To The Curb...
it was like
falling thru a
hole
a glowing halo of
rich ruby red light
reached out to us from
the open door and
asked us in
this place was a
Miami of red vinyl and corrugated steel
full of holes like starlight
on leave from
a strange piece of 1947
the leading motif of some
hybrid punk
anxiety
working its way into the beer
"Is this place a bar?"
I decided that
stupid was the
best
way
in
the happy drunk on the end responds,
"I dunno, whaddya think?"
Rafael says,
"Cool." and shrugs his shoulders
and we are both
stupid together
a square looking guy
enters behind the bar
"Got any beer?" I inquire
"I dunno, if we did have some
beer,
I mean, what would you want?"
"Whatever man."
he produces a couple of Buds
they are a dollar a pop and I give the guy an
extra buck
just to keep the place floating
and fuck it
outside on the street
at the
Bukowski memorial
where we had been
minutes ago
they are still
calling out
Beeeeowwwwskiiiiiiiii
Beeeeeooooowwwwwwwski this
and Beeeeeeeoooooowwwwwwssssskiiiiii that
and beeee ow ski
bee owww ski
be ow skeeeeee
they don't even know who the fuck they are talking about
but hey
that's what's going on and what in the hell
let them go on in their stum-bum tumbling dumbness
I am really starting to
feel the light here
some guys come in and get pissed off and
leave because
they didn't want their bags searched
one bartender says,
"Fuck it man,
I don't know them and
they don't know me."
"This is downtown fucking L.A.", says the
second bartender,
"you don't know what in the hell they got in them bags."
more beer
this place is jukin'
soon there is a juicy fat joint going around
and we are pounding the air with smoke
and we are shaking hands and
laughing
more beers
more laughter
one of the bartenders starts to speak of
Charles Bukowski
and it is agreed that he
changed the way you see the
colored lights go
when you read the way his
poetry has
legs on it that walk you into his
best room of fear and love
and the way that the typewriter and the bottle
dance the dance
we dance the beer
and the smoke
we dance the anger and the
pitiful hatred outside
wilting under the
generous embrace of yet another earthquake
one more round and they are
closing the door
the beer tumbles down my throat
like a small brook
I think of possible heavens
as we redesign the landscape
with whatever things we know
and
catch the 3 bus into
Hollywood
this is how we
found
Bukowski
THE NEXT BUKOWSKI
sits anonymously at the party
slamming beer in his own
inimitable
style
deadlifting the intoxicating helix of the alcohol
melting to
worms and
funk of crust towards possible
glory
stinking of life
people point and say that
he is the one
lonesome landscapes swallow trees and buildings in their
reincarnated quest for light
shadows bust the sun
the odds are good that the beer will
bleed genius and
love will cut the grass
all mighty father tends the strap
slaps the world on fire with his
blistering ire
the next Bukowski
spins inside of his own remarkable
chaos
holds up the corner liquor with his
perverse
charm
like
a monkey jacking off for the kids at the
zoo
a funky stray under the house
speaking in tongues
breeding feral logic
the next Bukowski is a bad idea
don’t try
he comes to the dance armed with
the winning ticket
stumbling past wounded portals
bleeding unknown
heavens
into the shriveled
scrotum of
chortling gods
drunk on creation
ignorant of the
resting spawn
who curls up to
sleep off the drunk centuries
hungover from
war
religion
and other civilized madness
resting
at the hearth of
burning time
and the expanding
everything
waiting
to set future stars in motion with the word
when he will laugh at the sky
call the moon a liar
and tell the
seductive ocean
to suck his
ugly purple cock
anxious horses approach the gate
freeze for one tense second then
scratch a fertile wound into the
fresh earth
immaculate in their effort
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