|
Bukowski To The Curb
it was like
falling thru a
hole
a glowing halo of
rich ruby red light
reached out to us from
the open door and
asked us in
this place was a
Miami of red vinyl and corrugated steel
full of holes like starlight
on leave from
a strange piece of 1947
the leading motif of some
hybrid punk
anxiety
working its way into the beer
"Is this place a bar?"
I decided that
stupid was the
best
way
in
the happy drunk on the end responds,
"I dunno, whaddya think?"
Rafael says,
"Cool." and shrugs his shoulders
and we are both
stupid together
a square looking guy
enters behind the bar
"Got any beer?" I inquire
"I dunno, if we did have some
beer,
I mean, what would you want?"
"Whatever man."
he produces a couple of Buds
they are a dollar a pop and I give the guy an
extra buck
just to keep the place floating
and fuck it
outside on the street
at the
Bukowski memorial
where we had been
minutes ago
they are still
calling out
Beeeeowwwwskiiiiiiiii
Beeeeeooooowwwwwwwski this
and Beeeeeeeoooooowwwwwwssssskiiiiii that
and beeee ow ski
bee owww ski
be ow skeeeeee
they don't even know who the fuck they are talking about
but hey
that's what's going on and what in the hell
let them go on in their stum-bum tumbling dumbness
I am really starting to
feel the light here
some guys come in and get pissed off and
leave because
they didn't want their bags searched
one bartender says,
"Fuck it man,
I don't know them and
they don't know me."
"This is downtown fucking L.A.", says the
second bartender,
"you don't know what in the hell they got in them bags."
more beer
this place is jukin'
soon there is a juicy fat joint going around
and we are pounding the air with smoke
and we are shaking hands and
laughing
more beers
more laughter
one of the bartenders starts to speak of
Charles Bukowski
and it is agreed that he
changed the way you see the
colored lights go
when you read the way his
poetry has
legs on it that walk you into his
best room of fear and love
and the way that the typewriter and the bottle
dance the dance
we dance the beer
and the smoke
we dance the anger and the
pitiful hatred outside
wilting under the
generous embrace of yet another earthquake
one more round and they are
closing the door
the beer tumbles down my throat
like a small brook
I think of possible heavens
as we redesign the landscape
with whatever things we know
and
catch the 3 bus into
Hollywood
this is how we
found
Bukowski
RAGGED LION
(for Jack Micheline)
beings of beauty
we learn to
hate /
love
from experience
for
get
ting
that
every
gentle
gust
of
breath
is
miracle
there
is
no
other
mad
Jack
wild
language
jazz
trumpet
of
word
raging
ragged
genius
beat
meat
street
poet
bends
brass
leans
bop
crosses
on
over
to
where
time
and
space
collapse
dressed
in
light
you
are
now
with
the
word
you
are
now
no
more
hate
no
more
you
are :
peace man
: peace baby
peace
the sun rises
great cunt peach dripping its
sweet sticky nectar
healing all questions
fear is hushed by the gravity of stars
every /
thing
finally
love
a baby's birdlike cooing at the great good
mystery :
begin
again
A Strange Peace
(for Misty Mallory)
the investigating detective told father Lee
that it was
extraordinary
that in all his years he had seen
nothing like it
said that they just
stopped and looked
as it brought to them all
a strange
yet wonderful
peace
the vision of this beautiful dead girl
her expired body resting against the endless tree
facing the benevolent
first light of day
as she chose to mark the shifting summer
and rising color of
yet another
Jersey fall
the miraculous declaration of seasons
and ascending spirit
go now
embrace the unconditional sun
fly with unthinkable time
drink the loving milk of stars
wrestle with the crazy gravity of this world
no more
spin with the all-together as you
left it to us
with your words and with your
final dance of
life
(as we think we know it)
sing the big inevitable Yes for us
that is bigger than cities
bigger than wars or presidents
bigger than any corporate hype could ever
hope to be
bigger than any love or
hate
no more ideas
only
truth
superhuman and
finally
real
this train will get us there
sooner or
later
peace,
at last a strange peace
but peace nonetheless -
peace
a kiss
from the
dark room of
this ordinary
museum of
living
peace
|
|
