again with “The Last Night Of The Earth Poems”

               and 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 there,

               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.

               Charles spins a fine tale, –– thorny,

               like the stems of roses before you get to the roses,

               but the roses are there if you take the time to shed

               a little blood along the way, and he’s certainly a good storyteller.

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

               here, this morning is much like the nine mornings before it,

               counting seven to eight crows frocked in feather-black.

               a field of bluegrass green –– fresh blooms

               in cadmium yellow dandies nodding in the wind,

               a full-throated tree line when the sparrows are active,

               a pleasant view of the river when the fog lightens and lifts.

               everything seems to be in the right place at the right time,

               and it's clearly all the right stuff,–– but 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."

                lesson learned.

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

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