books of poetry sit
dusty on my shelf

written by Neruda,
Hughes,
and assorted
others

but another being
sits there
too

it is Bukowski

his seven or so books
in my ownership
slouched in the corner
singing drunken
tunes

so, yes,
this is another
poem about my
second father

but it’s less about him,
and more about the others,
those books of poesy
I could never finish

sure,
I’ll read the first
section,
maybe half
of them,
maybe all but
the last
little
bit,

but never the whole
book,
cover to
cover.

I don’t know why,
money down the
drain really,
and yet,
I don’t regret
it

maybe I’m not cultured,
slumming with henry
and his gang of profanity
and depression,
to appreciate how and
what
they’re writing

but when I go back,
after reading the poems
for a little bit before
bed,
I find that I can go to
sleep when I put down
the works of Longfellow
or Cummings.

but when I finally silence
Bukowski,
all I can do is write
until my hands bleed so
much it hurts,
or my mind works to exhaustion
while my body falls to
shambles