Poor Boys Twiddling Their Thumbs 

too many birds in 
relationships biding time. 
it truly offends and hurts 
me when they go on dates 
with me. those poor bastards. 
those lads at home twiddling 
their thumbs while she’s 
soaked in lust sucking 
my thumb. test the 
plumbing. oh, I’m scum. 
degenerate, spit grab 
twist slap choke; 
manoeuvre, manhandle. 
vary the strokes. soft 
then sodomy, just a 
sick fuck soft touch baby, 
nameless provides free reign. 
I give them what goes begging 
at home with Gary, Harry, 
Barry and fucking Flynn. 
I fancy myself an artist. 
I eat her out and then 
puff my inhaler, I can’t 
help but laugh. I’m 
grinning at the gash. 

Fuck Florida 

I love winter. All the bugs die. The trees get naked, so you can hug ‘em better. Kids skid down hills, bash their Fiats into phone poles. Wise guys stay home with an old Penthouse, looking up from the vaseline to surf the web for porn. 

January brings the spiders. Wolves who crouch under the couch. Wait for a misapplied finger. Or a nightmare with the narrowest of openings. Who Contradict any fool brags ALL the bugs die. 

Procyon lotor – little dog that washes – waddles up to the garbage. High up above the domino mask, the Davy Crockett tail, the freaky screams in a fight to the death… high up above the hemlock, wheel the Dogs, yapping starlight at the Big Guy, the Mighty Hunter, searching endless winters for the identity some cop digital copied and stole. 

The Little Dog, Procyon, pauses to pee in the garbage; the coons, erect on hindlegs, snarling their treasure to repossess. 

I love winter, seated in my ancient Oldsmobile – jacked-up, stripped of wheels; possums, roly-polies, black widows existing in the trunk. I throw kisses to the Big Dog, in full knowledge no finance company in the sky would repo my ride – the oil-burning brain, the bad-timing heart, no stomach for the road, no thymus for anything but the blackberries in the pants and the snow on the head. 

I light a universal joint. Join the memory in song. 

Orion comes down to earth, because the planet sounds safe and sane. Camps in the park. But after a month of the good life, the cops bust Orion for climbing trees after squirrels, running down lap dogs to spit-roast over an open fire, various other violations.   

Orion gets hauled in. Flatfeet relieve the drifter of sword, belt, shoelaces, string tie. Ogle the no ID of a long-ago ego. 

I love winter. All the thoughts of dreams put on ice. Till the spring flows through the rusty pipes on the heels of Saint Paddy’s. 

I love the way the dead of winter lies there, bitter in its own frozen zen. 

I love winter. 

Winter abides the failure of the success that dreams us in the first place. Time has run, full circle, outta gas. It is now – tomorrow’s sun low-slung in the Archer – up to you to thumb back to town; fetch what is needed to reboot the resole of your sole pair of Florsheims; I’ll hold your brew, just don’t expect it to be there when you get your ass back. Following Monday, consider maybe the drawbacks of stepping outside to hunt for work. 

 Who is it argues love makes any sense?        

ON DISCOVERING BUKOWSKI’S EAST HOLLYWOOD BUNGALOW WAS NOW A REGISTERED LOS ANGELES LANDMARK, POSTING A PICTURE OF IT ON FACEBOOK, AND BEING TOLD BY LARRY CRIST IT LOOKED ‘BOURGEOIS’

For one thing, Sunset & Normandie,
the major intersection a couple blocks away,
can safely be called ‘seedy’ without
the denizens feeling particularly slandered.
On the short stroll to our destination one Saturday afternoon, 
we passed a shopping cart homeless guy
and heard a loud girl/boy fight in a nearby vacant lot—
the girl providing most of the volume in what sounded like 
recriminations for hopes and expectations dashed.
(Remembering all the while William Burrough’s admonition
“Never get in the middle of a boy/girl fight.”)
After a wrong turn down a blind alley
with a lotta construction work going on in it,
we arrive at 5124 De Longpre Avenue.
There was a huge metal fence across the parking lot!
“Oh no!” I thought. “They turned it into a gated community?!”
Peering thru the bars, one could make out
a gray plaque on the front archway—‘BUKOWSKI COURT’,
followed by the addresses of the nine units within.
The inside of the courtyard didn’t seem especially posh,
nor the squeals of the urchins playing in back.
Reflecting on the matter, we decided the gate was a good idea.
Otherwise, kids from the four corners of the globe
would be taking selfies of themselves 24/7,
drinking beer on the doorstep, pissing and puking all over,
and in general turning it into the new Jim Morrison’s Grave,
which I’m sure is not what
the Los Angeles Historical Landmark Society had in mind.

Luckily, we discovered the huge white cement apartment building
next door had an open walkway facing the complex,
so we ended up getting a good look at the bungalows—
Buk had the one in the very front,
a couple yards from the sidewalk
(as related in his story where he falls down drunk and can’t get up
when a cop stops and he’s like
“JUST ROLL ME 5 FEET TO MY PORCH, PLEASE…”)
Anyhow, truth be told, the bungalows were kinda cute,
with their faded orange stucco & red tile roofs,
and  potted cacti on the porches and the walls draped
with creeping shrubs that may well be
that tournefortia stuff dangling in the title of
my favorite book of Bukowski poetry.
Shit, I don’t know. I’m a poet, not a botanist. But I digress—
The point, Larry, is what the hell is wrong with that?
You want he should live in a tar paper shack
just to make you happy? 
He was a respectable blue collar worker
for the USPS, for chrissakes,
not some gutterbum.

And maybe if, while sitting in his kitchen,
basking in the late afternoon sunlight
on a pleasant Saturday in January a half-century ago,
Charles Bukowski experienced
a fleeting moment of contentment contemplating the beauty 
of what John Fante called “this pretty, pretty town,”
please don’t condemn him, Larry.
We are all weak sometimes.

Home improvement

I want to build a cabin
with you
at the edge of the world
and your smile
will be the door
the floor every joke
one of us failed to get
and we’ll flit
from room to room
fucking until the walls
come down
and we’ll rebuild
stronger, better, more secure
just to fuck harder
all the while
watching re-runs of
Home Improvement
and
thrusting to Wilson
– the steadiest side character
you could ever
know

Retribution

She backed up the car
excited
when she heard the thud of metal against his flesh.
She pulled the car forward 
nearly coming in her pants
when the car lurched over his prostrate body. 
Throwing the car in reverse
she flattened him again
giddy at the release of pent-up rage
simmering inside her like a smoldering volcano.
When the police came
she held out her arms to receive the cuffs
glowing for the gathering crowd.
And when photographers eagerly asked her to hold that pose
she beamed like a young bride on her wedding day.

unrequited love 

it was love 
at first sight; 
i tasted you 
on my lips 
and felt 
intoxicated. 
you had sting 
and bite 
but felt 
so right. 
the yrs. 
rambled on 
and i consumed 
you 
excessively. 
you made me 
sick, 
depressed, 
and broke. 
you made me 
forget 
who i was 
at times. 
but i drowned 
in you 
lustfully. 
addicted to 
your intoxication. 
you stole time 
and health. 
almost 
my life! 
i had to 
divorce you! 
now i love 
myself 
instead of 
being cheated 
by you, 
hooch!

Troll

The off-his-trolley troll posted on my feed: ‘I’m lonely.’

But it came out as: ‘You’re a poncey wog-loving fuckwit who deserves to have his spastic face bitten off by a rabid Rottweiler on cocaine.’

Then the off-his-trolley troll posted: ‘I just need someone’s attention.’

But it came out as: ‘I hope your sister gets raped by a monkey.’

Then the off-his-trolley troll posted: ‘All I want is to be loved.’

But it came out as: ‘You’re a fat and ugly cunt. Why don’t you do us all a favour and kill yourself?’

So, I finally posted back: ‘I love you’,

And he posted back: ‘Poofter.’

Enrique

I like you better with longer hair
When it falls past your ears,

How you occasionally blow it out of your face.
For me it’s those button dimples when you smile.

Yeah, I love you most when you’re drunk
And stumbling in a stall behind me

Where the streams of our piss
Pops in a pool of toilet water.

I remember our kiss
When you were kind enough to say,

No, I don’t want to lead you on.

Reno, Tahoe, Vegas

Reno, Tahoe, Vegas
Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus
from the streets to the sheets
on my heels in my wheels
Reno, Tahoe, Vegas
black sheep to London, New York, and Paris

I went looking for America
but alas, she didn’t want me
no drugs in my jeans for her, you see
she was an opioid whore
gone to seed
sluttony, gluttony and selfish greed

Scarsdale to Scottsdale
Austin to Boston
give me your tired
give me your poor
so I can throw them in prison
that’ll teach them for sure

Come on little son
turn on little girl
pull out your cracked harmonica
let’s go discover America

America cares
like a bandage at a beheading
the lizard eternally shedding
itself from the rest of the world
like a spoiled teenage girl

How can you call this
the land of the free
get me some drunks to spell “liberty”
line my jails with hobos and whores
white people lynching
round the Christmas tree

Never cared much for that city life
didn’t buy into that country hype
All the valleys and the alleys
gaudy sports cars
crashing into gaudier sports bars
kids hawking outdated Maps To The Stars

Come on little son
turn on little girl
pull out your cracked harmonica
let’s go discover America

Didn’t really care for Route 66
all it ever did was dump me off
in the sticks
Fifties diners mobbed by drunken Shriners

This world spin and spun
like carnival art
until it looks like something
that makes you want to throw darts

Come on little son
turn on little girl
pull out your cracked harmonica
let’s go discover America

Aka Disc Over America