Ode to Bukowski
I wonderSometimes
If I am the bastard child of Charles Bukowski.
My mom does not deserve the images conjured by that statement.
She was not in LA in 1974,
But she grew up there.
Maybe I was swapped at the hospital
With some baby that belonged to a woman he fucked--
a woman who emigrated to Maine to give birth?
That sure would explain a few things.
But not the precise way in which my
inner workings,
behavioral patterns,
and physical health
mirror my father’s.
Today I give up.
Today I imagine never having to grow old.
Last night, in the Rare Books store,
The readings were so...mmmm...
well-done.
Even the quiet, older woman who partied with Buk when he was here--
Sometime in the 60s or 70s, I think.
Especially the large, bushy man with the dramatic flare.
Surprisingly the woman in sequins.
More surprisingly the woman in jeans, who read the Cunt-infused poem as though she had been dared.
(I would have read it with relish. And mustard.)
And my creative writing professor from last year,
Who smiled a Real smile when I told him I had published an essay I wrote for him.
There may be no way for me to be creative
living the life that has suddenly been unrolled before me
like a red carpet, or a yellow brick road--
but much less poetic than either.
I was tossed out of a helicopter onto this dusty,
rocky, cliff-edged,
wind-whipped
trail.
I was thrown onto it in the middle of the night
after being handcuffed
and blindfolded
(gagged for sure)
and pushed and
all manner of
man
handled--
and now I'm here.
Not sure which way to go,
but I will walk it.
And I will rock it.
I guess I will manage to find creativity in my mind even if I'm too empty to even think, "huh?" without hearing an echo.
If Bukowski could do it, then so can I.
Or something.
I have been living a dream these last few months,
and now I'm awake.
Or maybe
just
maybe
This is the dream. |
posted by Bored Housewife at
5:30 PM
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