Hey, Bukowski!
Hey, Bukowski!
You boozing hound,
poetic misfit muse!
Hey, pockmarked man!
Big nose and gin blossoms
like my grandfather.
How did you find
your way
into my car?
I have searched these lonely
highways
beneath the lunatic smile of
a checkered moon,
by the light of a desert star
awash in the soft glow
of car radio,
For you, Hank!
fat-gutted and beer swollen
splayed crotch riding
the bucket seat of my jeep.
The pessimist is at the wheel
again.
We cackle like roosters
spitting into the wind,
my long black hair a flag
whipping the salt from our
eyes..
Transgressions like so many
trinkets rattle our pockets.
We are crazy drunk and reckless
with poetry
giving no thought to the check
stop
just beyond the sloppy roadfs
bend.
What do you think of that, Buk?
May I split
a cigarette
with you?
Put my head
in your lap?
My ugly lover
who fights and fucks
like a boar.
We will select the finest
of ugliest whores,
bet on the lamest
of horses.
Indulge me if you will,
Mr. Chinasky. The rants
of a victim
are the saddest
BACK
NEXT
@
all.