drinking
100 proof and Icehouses,
sitting in my worn chair,
my grandmother's,
scribbling my drunken ode
and smoking a cigarette in homage
to the hemorroidal master
the drunk, defender of the poor,
fighter of landlords in dirty slippers,
and macho bartenders w/greasy towels
so, here
I sit
drinking an aluminum beer,
feeling the metal fill my belly,
providing the fuel-
to more onward,
write the words,
stare out of filthy windows,
covered in the grime of time
and view life
to see the creatures of the night
and hear the sounds of sleep
dreaming the eternal dream,
to drink and write
and quit the post office,
so to speak.
calling
women,
many just for fun,
in the middle of the night,
some long since innocence,
having their fill of too many horrors,
too many break-ups and heartaches
they are hardened by love
and by their imagined prisons
we all have them,
especially Bukowski-
he knew his best of all,
he recognized it everywhere,
like a social disease,
one that only he knew and saw-
he didn't expect us to understand
but, he
was also a drinker,
cut from the same cloth as
Thomas,
Kerouac,
Morrison
he was an adventurer,
bored w/our conventional nature
as, many times, he was
arrested,
beat up,
fucked,
fucked up,
fucked over,
brutalized,
haunted,
sad,
mean,
out of control,
and most important of all-
talented