why Bukowski

during the early years when they told me the Earth

spins on its axis, I accepted their findings albeit with reservations.

there was romance to the motionless planet, like a water drop

suspended at the faucet's mouth, or

a battered baseball when the game is done.

do the forensics and you'll find each mark of the hide

a testimonial of the game between the red-threaded hemispheres.

so why Bukowski.

well, there he stands, flat-footed on the shelf, cursing, drinking

red wine, exaggerating the final syllables, and getting fat on poetry.

it's only when the title page is turned that he's put into proper motion;

sober and calculating, clear-eyed and scheming, and tonight around here,

that's the fundamental way of things.