bukowski lightens my grief
but he does so only slightly
there's this damn family's voices
coming into the back kitchen window
jesus they're horrible
"ready?" says the father
to his small kids
(i can't tell whether they're boys
or girls and don't need to know)
blah, blah, blah cries the youngest
the other kids' voices are already
hollow because they have such
a man for a father
and the mother
let's forget about her
what was i talking about here anyway?
o, bukowski, yes, him, buk to some
as on the back of that magazine 20 years
ago the one in which i was published
with "buk" and ginsberg and corso
tom waits and even kerouac after
he was already dead
but today
today it's this rich town
and my sons off playing soccer with
the mexicans a week before my boys
return to the big city for their
education in and out of the classroom
and my redheaded sexy tall girlfriend
cuts hair on men whose necks are thicker
than their heads
what a life it is down here
or anywhere really
but bukowski writes an honest poem
i can say that
honest and gritty
and intelligent
and i'm a bit happier
for it
today

dpo