she had an uncle who spent
twenty years in the ring,
landing solid blows until  
he landed
in a downtown Oakland hotel,
older than he, wrecking ball got it
in the dawn of the cyber age
but for ten droning years,
it was his cage

he never had a title shot
but he kept his belly full
and had cash for the women, the drink  
never drove a car, cabbies knew him
and knew the smell of gin meant
“keep the change”
  
when his legs got weak
and his left eye went to blur
the money stopped rolling in  
but he still thirsted for the gym, the gin
he got himself a gig at Big G’s  
just enough hours to clean out the showers,
to keep the johns from smelling of ****,  
and a few greenbacks comin’ his way  

he would end each day
alone in his room, inhaling the gloom  
that seeped over the transom  
like smoke from a smoldering fire  
but there was no fire left in the ancient hotel  
or Parrot’s burned up belly  
only fading memories
of a wounded warrior  
who taunted his opponents
by mimicking every word they said  
in the ring, where he earned a bird’s name  
but never its sweet song, before time
took its tattered toll

will I put lipstick on you  
when you lay still and silent
as the last morning
  
or will you pull the sheet
over my face gently  
with a surprised sense of relief  
when my final breath
marries the gray air
  
will it be in the room
where we slept
under the watchful eye
of children and grandchildren
their timeless images nailed to the walls  
ever present but mute
while they navigated worlds  
with horizons we would never see

or would it be in the
hallowed house of hospice
where palliative words like
“we will miss you”
“not long now,”
“you can go, it’s OK,”
float above the beds  
like birds stalled in flight  
riding unseen currents, but
soon to swoop down
to perch on mystic memories,
briefly,
before flying into
the karmic night

I do not know why you moved to this side  
long ago, before your city became a **** zone  
maybe you knew something I did not  
you knew many things I did not, which I discovered
when you politely corrected my grammar  
though it was my native tongue,
and one you learned reading our newspapers,
watching our television
listening, more carefully than most,
to what the gringos said  
you told me tales of the arena,
usually after dinner, on your back porch  
when the shadow of the mountain covered our houses
like a quiet blanket, blocking out the blistering heat
of the desert day  
you would offer me a soda, always  
before my questions began  
your civility was strange to me at first,
the adults in my family barked and cackled  
your words rolled out like sweet liquid  
and left me wanting more  
I never asked why you had no woman,
you were as handsome as any man I knew  
later, years later, years of name calling later
I guess I understood,  maybe
that was why you left your home  
though the blind blood of bigotry
ran freely on both sides of the Rio Grande
and I knew you to be courageous
for when you told me the stories,
as the desert sky became violet and cool,  
and the few cicadas began their song,  
you boasted not of your dangerous dance
in the packed dirt of the ring,
but of the art it took to silence the beast  
the lost look in its red *** eyes
and the silent sadness you felt  
as the crowd cheered
another beautiful death

“lets split this diner and have a beer”  
four coffees in an hour made the world
too awake for him  
we walked to the Pink Mule,
the first bar we saw  
he knew all of the bars--all bars knew him  
the bartender was Abraham
but looked like a Bob    
he had a bourbon poured before
Charles made it to the stool
and looked at me like I was a fool  
“a light beer”  
Bukowski didn’t bother to laugh
though I am sure the word “***”
was rolling around in his head  
looking for a place to get out  
he kept on about Selma,
sweet succulent Selma  
how anybody that hot
could rule the world  
dragging men around by their dongs  
without lifting a finger  
that is why the gods made wine, he said  
not for some sacrament for the holy humbled
but for men hunched over like balless beggars,
he said, when Abraham Bob  
filled his jigger a second, or fourth time  
men made that way by all the Selmas  
whose middle name had to be vexation  
a whiff of her could get you to take  
a **** job, where you spent the day
hunched over, hoping, she would be there
when you got home  
even if she was, you wouldn’t remember  
in the morning, when you would go back  
to the grinless grind, hunched over, hoping  
Selma would be your wine