Nothing makes cash more elastic
Than cards made out of plastic.

bukowski socialized with
                                             sean penn and madonna
but he did not care for
                                             the material girl with her airs,
acting like a literary
                                             poseur, name dropping, chatting
about swinburne, like
                                             some patron at a bloomsbury
salon. she even asked
                                             him if he would appear
in her raunchy *** book
                                             but he refused. bukowski
would complain to sean    
                                             about madonna's phony
behavior and sean would
                                             get furious and defensive.
bukowski just laughed it
                                             off. he valued sean as a
friend and an artist but
                                             he had no time for
madonna playing hip,
                                             he said, she's not being real.
bukowski treasured his
                                             daughter, his wife, his cats,
classical music and his
                                             muse, his way with words,
characters, situations.
                                             he was a regular guy
and a gifted poet...
                                             and everyone called him hank.

We are all starting out
from some godforsaken abyss

It is will that drives us
to the venture not yet taken
to the search not yet defined

Something propels us
to surge skyward
up     up      up
breaking through the water
our hands dividing the surface
our faces welcoming the sun
the light that will not die

This false pain from a still false lance
Is mine to suffer through a frenzied dance
For beyond the pirouetting players
Lurk my silent secret slayers

In closing come come the curtain calls
Trapping me in mad applause
And even my expiring breath
Belies the backdrop's quicker death

Although the savage clock will strike
And toss me from this scene
The bravos never uttered
Will survive my dreaded dream

I tried to make me God and King
Sainted in the flesh
I find the easiest meeting begins
In shaking hands with death

the attention deficit hyperactivity disorder
poem
is a strange animal

with lines
monosyllabically
short
and then
perilously   freakishly    faulknerically
long
but not to worry

the trick is to ***** around
with the readers' heads a bit
let them wonder
   what's going on
get them used to
   obnoxious departures
   sudden jolts
      of expression
   devious detours into
     obscenity, indecency

these are the
tourette's moments
of a poet's creative life:
a move to keep those with the
attention span of an infant gnat
awake  alive  responsive

some may expect poetry
to take them down
safe  bland  routes:
         a snowfall enhanced by red robins
         perched on a rustic fence

         a lake with canoeing lovers cooing
         in a shimmering moment
          
         heartfelt elegies
         quaint quatrains
         hip haikus

but can these images
really keep you entranced?

well, can they?

it isn't like i didn't warn you
or the horse you rode in on

i see faces
wrinkled from gossip,
eyes like lightbulbs,
tongues that scribble,
malicious jawbones
gouging across a page.

Suddenly a Christmas card
comes to life on a mantel
and a splendid silken angel
with eyes the color of diamonds
smirks at a mirror
while faces without features
vanish through a fireplace
already cold and white.

It
may
happen
when your brain
gets confused and
you're out of rhyme
or don't have much time
or your heart's not in it so you
give it a try and your get up and go
gets up and says 'bye.' When inspiration
has decided to flee, don't take the flight so
personally. There's always something to give
you a lift, some magical way to steer
through life's twists. Just remember
those poets from olden days found
their inspiration missing in
a troublesome haze...
when the rhyming muse is
nowhere to be found and
words that used to flow
sink underground,
just keep the faith and
before you know it you're back
to being a full-fledged poet. Believe
in yourself and your gifts are enough to
show everyone you still have the write stuff.