if you read
enough
Bukowski
eventually find out
about his deep
and serious affair
with the feline
species,
one that he
kept up
probably
from the day
he got old
to the
day
he finally
went kicking
into
death

it’s really something
completely out of
character for him and
I think he knew it too

cats?
come on

what happened
to the tough-cut,
bar-fighting
drunk we all
know and
love?

off with his cats?
pfff

but its true
and,
really,
it’s less surprising
than you might
think

I think he respected
them

their calm
ways,
their toughness,
their ability
to come back
from anything and
never even look
scared

that’s what he saw,
he saw himself,
he saw some tough
******* and
they didn’t even
show it

he respected that
I respect that

and when the toughest
one of them all died

I think Buk saw himself
for a moment

cats,
you crazy
sons of
bitchs,
I swear you
know more than
any of us
men

and I salute you,
and I’m sure Buk
does too,
you delicate creatures
go take a nap
you understand more
than all of
humankind
simply by sitting
in the
sun

waiting

So Chinaski took down Hem,
eh Buk?
I could take your cardboard mask
anyday
because i know he's more of a paper tiger
than the commies hoped america would be.

I'm crazier than you
and i'm willing to bet
my pecker against yours;
if you win
i'll chop it off with a rusty cleaver
and we can braid eachother's hair
while we tape my pecker onto the tip of yours
and spray silly string and ***** into my wound.

So what you got?
Huh? How crazy can you get?

After all,
i think you died naturally.
I still got time in these bones
to walk onto campus with
a gallon of gas
and a pack of menthol cigarettes,
asking to *** a lighter.

How crazy
have they become?
And how crazy do you think
it will make me?

I dreamt he sent
a care package
A shabby box
filled with
wall sconces
from his
******* apartment
half filled tablets
thoughts and doodles
with a note
to not abuse
substances
and a really nice
vinyl pressing of
some nineties
spoken word piece
with one or
another unknown
ska
alt rock
grunge
band
That sure was nice
of him
I must have
sent some good
psychic *****
Spirits
they call it

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

I.

There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)

II.

I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)

III.

Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

I’ve
got to
wonder
what’ll happen
when all
the Bukowski
runs
out

he,
despite my best
efforts,
is the single
greatest wellspring
of inspiration
I have

it’s not what he
says
or who he
is
it’s just,
every time I pick up
his books
and turn to any
page
and
read
I am
always
inspired

the poems
flow,
like a river,
a rushing river,
out of my mind
and onto the
page

he knows,
where ever he’s
at,
how painful
it is for me
to be so
dependent
on one
man

I’m sure he
smiles, takes a
drink, and
laughs
up in heaven
or where-
ever
and reads over
my shoulder after
I put down his words
and quickly,
like a feral dog,
spill out
mine

Pada suatu hari yang kejam.
Budi mau ke sekolah.
Ganti baju, minum susu, tidak lupa gosok gigi.
“Buk, Budi berangkat dulu ya.”

Ibu pertiwi tidak menjawab.
Budi melongok ke dapur lalu melihat ibu pertiwi.
Tampangnya kusut, pakaiannya berantakan dan matanya sembab.
Budi marah.
Sosok bangsat macam mana yang telah membuat ibu pertiwi sedih !
Di mana bapak pertiwi? Ibu pertiwi sudah jadi janda dan masih dicabuli. Memang anjing !

Jadi siapa yang telah membuat ibu pertiwi sedih?
Apakah si bangsat itu adalah mereka?
Yang menanam beton raksasa dan mengambil semua dengan paksa?

Atau apakah si bangsat itu adalah kalian?
Yang menumpang dan mengotori air udara tanah, menggusur alam atas nama pembangunan?

Atau apakah si bangsat itu adalah dia ?
Yang berjalan angkuh dan tamak. Sesekali mencari peluang, sumber daya mana lagi yang bisa di sikat ?
Babat terus tambang, sekalian laut, hutan, juga hewan!

Atau apakah si bangsat itu adalah saya ?
Bersembunyi di balik hati nurani yang katanya peduli, katanya cinta bumi, saya adalah omong kosong!
Saya tidak benar-benar cinta. Jijik betul merasa ibu pertiwi sungguh berarti, ikut menjerit ketika ia ternodai, mana yang lebih munafik apakah diri saya atau aksi ?

Pada suatu hari yang kejam,
Budi tidak berangkat ke sekolah.
Akal sehat budi meronta ingin lari selamatkan diri bersama ibu pertiwi.
Anak cicit Adam dan Hawa terlalu goblok dan jahat.
Manusia terlalu serakah dan merasa berkuasa.
Lihat itu,
Asap hitam pekat bergerak mendekat.
Mampus kau! Ibu pertiwi sudah sekarat!

Pada suatu hari yang kejam,
malam datang dan manusia mulai buta.
Ibu pertiwi gelap gulita, budi merangkak tanpa arah.
Apa perlu listrik untuk buka mata?
Atau cukup hanya sepercik bara?
Budi bingung. Ibu pertiwi sedih. Bapak pertiwi bodo amat.

The door of a fifth wheel trailer clanged open from across the street, and a man that looked a few years older than me with a shaved head and clumsy stature ambled out of the trailer. He left the door wide open, and on the small concrete patio next to the trailer took a hit off of a pipe filled with ****. He exhaled a few moments later, and let the *** smoke join the cotton tree seeds in the afternoon air. I watched all of this with moderate disinterest, and then plunged back into Buk’s evocations of the old gods as the man plunged back into the trailer. He left the door open.
More activity quickly followed, however, and I scarcely made it through another poem before the noise arrived at my spot. Apparently the man had begun to act reckless, and an elderly lady began chastising him about his behavior.
“Shawn, knock it off! You’re going to break something,” the woman intoned. It was almost a whine really, and at the sound of her voice I was almost tempted to go assist Shawn in breaking some of her things. Shawn replied with odd laughter, and a crash could be heard from inside the trailer. He then stumbled outside, and started behaving like a four year old boy would. He picked up a few things that lay scattered about the trailer, and then immediately lost interest in them and threw them back down with reckless abandon.
“You’re being reckless, Shawn. Stop it.” The woman obviously shared my critique of his actions.
Shawn didn’t stop it, whatever that was, and kept rummaging through things before tossing them about. He fell down as he tripped over a few of the things he threw aside, and screamed “Fuuuuuuucckkkkkk!!!” Yep. He was acting just like a four year old boy; full of ****, vinegar, and conquest right up until the world socked him one in the mouth.
“You’re going to hurt yourself! Cut it out!” It was funny how she kept saying essentially the same things in the same tone of voice, but I was glad at least that her attention had shifted away from material possessions. I mused to myself that some people just can’t handle their ****, and attempted to try and lose myself between the dry pages of a decades old library book again.
The universe must have had other plans for all of that though. The man kept staggering into things and screaming ****** ****** when he fell over, while the woman kept at her nasally whine. Only occasionally was her existence even acknowledged by Shawn, and this was done through the clever use of the phrase, “*******!” After spewing forth a vulgarity he would then resume his parade as ruler and champion of all; subject to only the merciless force of gravity and his drug addled mind.
My peace was disturbed by these shouts of anger, self induced failure, and recrimination, but the peace was replaced with a subtle interest. Overall, I wished the whole thing to stop, or that I had my key with me and could simply ignore the calamity of it all, but since neither of these two things would occur I felt as though I should break from my reading and enjoy the spectacle of life around me. Apparently, however, this other elderly man’s peace was far more disturbed than mine, and he walked over to ask the lady if she needed help, not realizing that he was not solving anything, but merely adding to the production unfolding before my eyes. The man and the woman spoke for a bit as Shawn ran about, stumbling into the trailer before finally managing to step inside of it. The woman mentioned to the man something about Shawn being a diabetic and that he hadn’t had anything to eat today, and then she asked Shawn for the sugar. Shawn’s hand promptly popped out of the trailer and presented a pink box of sugar. He was completely oblivious to the fact that the sugar was really for him, and so the woman then asked Shawn to eat some of it, which brought back a warranted, “*******!” Shawn then jumped out of the trailer, clearing the miniscule metal step-ladder which was placed at the door for easier access, landed, lost his balance, sputtered around on his feet for a second, caught his balance, and then ambled towards the back of the trailer where he tripped over something and fell to the ground, catching the corner of the trailer with his body on the way down.
“OOOOWWWWWWIIIIEEEE!!!!” He screamed from the ground. I felt like applauding, but instead resolved to keep my response limited to stifled laughter. Shawn stood back up, took another two steps so that the trailer blocked his body from my line of sight, and I heard him hit something hard and metal before again screaming, “FUUUCCKKK!! OUCH OUCH OUUUUCH!!!” The urge to applaud came up again,  but I couldn’t disturb the production by breaking the fourth wall between myself and the actors.
“I just…” the lady sighed with her hands running through her hair, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him…”
The old man asked, “Is there anyone you want to call?”
“I don’t know…” Both hands came to rest in her hair at the back of her head.
“You could call an ambulance.”
“I know… Just… Shawn! Eat some sugar, hon.”
“*******!!” Shawn darted back inside the trailer.

And the night was the way it was
There was a heat but it was not unbearable
Hemingway sipped on his ***
As the Buk made his way with the beer
And Woolf eyed the passing river stream

There once was a dream that ended not in death
But only with the sight of a Christmas wreath
Snow fell upon the ground like the ash of dead men
And war pillaged the Earth like the pecking of farm hens

Where there is misery
There is desire for honesty
The rules of life change
When the bullets begin to fire

The mire has broken
There are faceless soldiers being
Ordered by nameless generals
The future is the present
And the present is at your doorstep

Walking through history
Seeing the horn-blowers with their faces
Painted with the screams of the lost
I remember by childhood
The vast plains concrete
And economical disaster on
Every front the pupil could encompass

Can there be only questions in life?
Where are these desired answers?
Are there friends on the other side of hill,
Or will life be only filled with the presence of enemies?

Am I my own nightmare?

Are questions
Only
A path to uncertainty?

The train leaves to pass a levee
With sights
That only grandmother
Would be able
To articulate

She cries as if
Death is her husband
And all her sons
Have abandoned her
For other women

Dylan is almost dead
I weep for the poet's dream
Seeing that the buttons
Never matched up to the seams

On the horizon the lines of clouds
Reflect the madness of the crowd
Born, constructed, and organized
There is no reason why
Man should not be demonized

Tell tale signs of the witch hunt are here
Can't you see that repentance has passed and not near
The horn-blowers, they cry for Joan
The cross burning
They seek another who unknowingly
Waits for their wheel to turn

Time ticks on
I love the sound of my
Gravel ridden voice
Mystery mends its wounds
As the caverns of humanity
Ensure that
Their will be a place for their eternity

Where is God now?
Where did he drunkenly wonder off to?
Why are there so many of us
With only ourselves?

I smell the scent
Of sweet and stale blood
The beginnings and the ends
Of a revolution

There is no spanish war
Anymore

There are no Germans
To fight

The Middle east has collapsed
In on itself

There is only us

And

The night

She doesn't understand her
biology.
Her need for extra attention.
Her desire to
chirp and meow
constantly, and raise her
**** in the air.

She gazes out the
window with
longing in her
golden eyes.
Her calls through the
screen bring no
visitors.
Little lonely orphan.

She sits with me while
I write at my large
maple desk.
She swats at the
purple orchid.
It drives her batty.
I've been there.
Lost in the
smell and taste of
flowers.
She wanders over to
the Starry Night
painting and looks
dizzy at the sky.
She lifts her **** in
the air and stutter steps
rapidly with her
back paws.

When I got her and
her sister, I thought they
had *****.
I named him (her)
Bukowski.
She comes to the
name
and seems to like it.
Pray for me.
Buk's in heat.