again with “The Last Night Of The Earth Poems”

               I’m growing weary of Bukowski. don’t get me wrong. It's not him, it's me.

               I enjoy the reading. I respect his place in the canon.

               I shelled-out at least 100 bucks on his books and all this without concern for my safety.

               but with Charles, sometimes it’s as if he’s having a nice conversation with himself, and

               well,–– don't we all, but he won’t let me slip a word in edgewise and I enjoy slipping

               a word in edgewise.

               so I turn the page and he’s at the bar again and he ends up screwing all the best women,

               but not every night, he's gotta eat. and he tells us about them which is his job

               and he's very good at it. listen closely. these are love poems and they're sublime.

               that said, some run-out on him in the dead of night carrying hands-full of his stuff.

               others cling too much and are repatriated to the barstools from whence they came.

               I'm not finding fault. who in hell knows how long I'd last?

               but he’s pulled from the shelf with the best of them and a damn good shelf it is.

               all the best people, and a nice array of multi-colored spines to titillate the neighbors

               when they drop by to get drunk on a cheap dry red.

               Charles spins a fine tale, –– thorny, like the stems of roses.

               he makes it look easy, but it’s not, really.

               

               outside my window, a full-throated tree line where the sparrows are active,

               a pleasant view of the river when the fog lightens and lifts and I'm recalling

               what Bukowski whispered to my ear that morning long, long ago:

                           ".. but as God said,

                               crossing his legs,

                               I see where I have made plenty of poets

                               but not so very much

                               poetry."

               (quotation from: "to the whore who took my poems"

               from the volume: "Burning In Water Drowning In Flame")