the people in the audience
want to laugh when Bukowski
reads his poems from the stage.
they anticipate the language
as Bukowski readies them.
they laugh.
they laugh because Bukowski
wants them to.
they laugh because they’re
uncomfortable because
their mothers might hear
because they’ve got kids
because some have vaginas
and others have dicks, I guess.
who knows why?
Bukowski doesn’t even know
they’re there.
when I’m out and about
when I’m out and about
the busy cars on the street
travel east and west each
in its proper lane in single file
at the same speed.
some are moving forward
to take care of business.
others snatch people from
the sidewalks to parts unknown.
the older cars speak to their identities.
the newer ones keep me guessing.
none are Nash Ramblers
and may they rest in peace.
It’s like another world out there.
the hum of rubber wheels.
the occasional horn of the cars
some with two doors others with four.
they stop and go when
the traffic light tells them to.
even the murderers stop
when told to do so by the mighty traffic light
which hangs from a wire above
swaying in windy conditions like a crazed Wallenda.
but the people are always silent when I’m out and about.
