wwBd [what would Bukowski do?]
Taken with my iphone, edited with Snapseed.
I was sixteen—
it was my father’s wedding
where I swilled old drunkard’s puke, champagne,
up in the loft of the old barn—
after that bubbly night of crooning Guns N’ Roses,
the morning brought a crippling hangover
& Herculean throw-up—
it was in the violence
of foamy vomit
I first made out your face—
Bukowski—
back then, I didn’t even know who you were.
Like a Wellesian hitchhiker,
you’d appear & vanish before me,
Bukowski—a phantom looped in scenes:
clubs in full swing
loading rounds of shots
for drunk-tank depressions—
poor people at the racetrack
betting against sleeping
another night on
cold benches of brokenness—
heavy-petting prostitutes
perfumed by sweaty genitals
& dumpster grease
in alleys of infidelity—
truck stop peepshows
logging 1,000,000 miles
of tire tread
upon one tired lot lizard’s face—
worn soles of L.A. postmen traipsing church lawns—
hippies drugged up & beat down—
jobless fathers beating their sons—
& writers
hopeful in dreams
of grasping the perfect
word
that will touch
a reader’s
face.
I’ve gotten to know you.
I know what you do—I know what you drink.
Bukowski—between the city lights & ebony ladies of night,
I saw you hung like a crab louse
from the suspension cables on the
North Avenue Bridge
in Chicago.
Bukowski—you kicked sand in my face
as I sucked applesauce off a plate
with tequila leaking from my ears
in Cancún.
Bukowski—you told Mel Gibson & me
that Hitler
tied his shoes in Nazis—
as I burrowed into a bottle of
Ketel One for warmth
with a splash of cranberry for my UTI
behind the SoHo Grand
in New York City.
Bukowski—whenever we’re boozing in the Columbus Bar—
I’ll sit beside your barstool for camaraderie,
insulate decades with the cat-piss smell on your clothes
& stale vino riding your exhalations
delivering bottom-shelf sucker punches
against all who can rhyme
thinking they are
poets...
You’ll leave me then—
& through the ruination of your teeth
you’ll sputter the same damn two words
you left for all of us—
don’t try.
wwBd [what would Bukowskido?] from the collection, The Sportsman's Guide to Field Dressing Man
copyright 2011 matthew d. jackson inc. All rights reserved.
I was sweet on her
She was sweet on Jesus
We slept with a blanket barrier between us
Master of her craft, I had her laughin like hyenas
When I asked her if she'd marry an elitist
Staggering genius in lace
With the grace of a drunken monk
The mask isn't seamless cause her face says something's up
But I don't dare ask her I just listen
Switchin to my good ear and adjusting my position
As she discusses Ginsberg I listened and learned
As she dispersed his words I just resisted the urge to do like he would
Whatever he wanted, if she allowed me to
She dangled that carrot then asked me:
"What would Bukowski do?"
Oh don't go there
He'd make you his mom and then completely lie about it in a book later on
-Sage Francis, Got Up This Morning
