I'm readin' a "Buk"!

Windin’ down a night
of slingin' hash
I plant
my ass
on a
cold stainless steel table
to experience the pleasure
of a Bone Palace Ballet

"What ya readin'?"
a distant voice squirms,
tryin’ to grab at a word of recognition.

"I'm readin' a "Buk."
I feel the last breath of pleasure
gasp for solitude.

"really?. . . .poetry? . . .you? . . .
I got a good one for Christmas you might like!"

as it would change my very existence,

"The Great Big Bathroom Reader",
you know...tells you stuff like where the word "falsehood"
came from and how it got started."

Visions of porcelain philosophers
plunged through my head
takin’ a shit on the world
as all of their wisdom swirls
round the blue tidal cesspool,
jumpin’ from fecal barge to fecal barge

"Really...sounds like something Cliff Claven would quote.
They should re title it…
"Cliff's Notes from the Shitter",
the world needs more sarcastic humor...

"Yeah...your right?", he replied questioningly
The idea grazed his skull while shooting by.

I continue seeking pleasure
as he clears my boundary.

……gaining solitude……

"What's that your reading?"
two hotties approach,
one with interested eyes

"I'm readin' a "Buk"!"

"I know your reading a book, but what is it?"

I want to rip the braces
from your filthy mouth
and rake them down your back!

"He said "Buk", not book stupid!",
intelligence from the eyes

"Never heard of him."
empty zip lock listening with her tongue

You will never hear him,
know him,
understand,
or obtain him.
His bones spit at you and laugh.
Crying for your soul!

"I've heard of him, but who was he?"
eyes begging for enlightenment.

"a pauper poet,
a scotch sponge,
a friend to trash cans,
a cat feeder,
a bartender beater,
a masturbating muse,
the village idiot,
a hardcore handicapper,
a fornicating fingerer,
a cunning linguist,
a chaser of the sun with a squirt gun!"

"Wow....can I read more?"

"glad to loan you one...."

"I'll bring it back Monday."

"sure, baby,
I'll see ya'
Monday."

"ain't nuttin' wrong wi' dat cut
Damn good Eatin'!”

     R. L. Stephenson has been livin' with the cactus and horny toads for many years. It certainly has affected his views, not to mention the few dances with peyote doin' the same. Slingin' hash, or grub to most folks, being an accomplished Executive Chef has put the groceries in the fridge and a roof over his head. He is editor/publisher of Whoopeecat Press. His work appears on various websites. Accomplishments - chapbook: "Nola in the Streets" and "Howlin' Cat Blues" - 15 poem CD.