The Continual Condition
This old Bukowski book
(posthumously published)
has been all over with me,
through good and bad,
but I’m well aware it’s just more poems
yellowing like hair greys
but those bent pages just seemed to know
the sound of lung cancer strangling someone
or the way beer consoles,
even deaths that haven’t happened yet.
The Greatest Lie
Yesterday, another politician announced
his resignation/retirement,
with a face that still seemed safe enough
for billboards and a smile that told
the same lie, the greatest lie,
that everything was going to be okay.
Him with his one year old car,
closet full of shoes
(because everyone needs a hobby),
a son planning to go into politics too,
a lawn mowed by someone else
and all his recyclables always placed
in the right bins…
Yeah, he’ll be back.
Dear Bukowski:
You typed away your soul
at an IBM computer,
but knowing that was all such bullshit
you couldn’t help but get drunk
again, only to fall in love
on your death dead with a fax machine.
There’s bigger changes in the world
than just dying, and you knew that.
P.S. I had to take a break
while writing this
to clean my toilet.
Just Another Loser
Time hits different when sober
for months on end:
the minutes and hours
move with a slug’s precision
towards a goal we think we know
instead of feeling like sitting alone
in a doctor’s waiting room.
Each day a boxing match
inside a nearly empty arena
I convince myself is fuller
than it actually is
by writing another poem.
The Tragedy of Naked Branches
The person I was
20 years is dead,
and I don’t mean that
in some melodramatic way,
but it’s like the beautiful autumn leaves
signaling another winter
with deaths as low as whispers,
while we pretend not to notice
there’s nothing we can do.
