Fresh brewed coffee and a mouthful of bitter,
bitter grounds. There’s an angry cock
painted on my mug and a war eagle in the den,
I never allow the two to get too close, and never too
far away. You’re missing it.
There’s an apple core in the cellar and a drunk on the phone.
And now he’s roaming the apartment with his shirt off,
noting how everything is too small and his fingers are cumbersome.
His only comfort exists in the familiarity of the wine-glug,
how it has glugged the same all winter. He wishes
he could care less about his belly so he could eat and drink
more, until his only options become a long stay in the 9th ward,
or pass out on the couch. Clean the pan –
you’re drunk already, and you skipped work.
We all drink too much. There’s egg yolk
encrusting. There’s a wine glass in the sink,
a small ceramic plate, and steel utensils, also small.
Bukowski claimed he was a genius –
I’m smarter, what does that say?
Bukowski was no genius, only an indulgent.
The man was a liar, the inconsistencies of his own telling
of his own biography are flawed. He is damaged.
He’s so flawed and damaged he’s the new John Wayne.
He’s a wine drinking cowboy. He drinks bottles of beer
swimming with cigarettes. And every time he tips
his ten gallon cap and slurs something like,
feel and beat again, feel and beat again...
I pick a grain of blue optimism from the evening,
throw a side of beef to the war eagle, scrub the plates,
turn the dial on the stereo, and find something to sing about.
