Mr. Bukowski,
Well, does that house next door still,
make you sad?
With the two kids and all, in bed by 9
And the absent mom and dad
I need to know
And Mr. Bukowski,
How fair the ice cream people?
Do they vote still,
For a cruel man?
You didn't vote,
Nor do most of we
The insane
But,
Do you carry a vote now?
I need to know
And Mr. Bukowski,
How the hell is Cass?
She's kept me awake
Many nights,
Is she still beautiful?
I bet so
And Mr. Bukowski,
What of the girlfriends,
You didn't wish to see?
Do you see them?
I need to know
And Mr. Bukowski,
I miss you.

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me . . .
I tapped my own head;
it was glass, an inverted bowl.
It's small thing
to rage inside your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself.