A TOAST TO BUKOWSKI

Ask me no questions, and I'll let the poetry tell the lies.

“You’re like a middleclass Bukowski,”
The agent said.

I could’ve murdered the fucker,
Or at least smeared his nose
For calling me a coward.

I used to pretend to be poor.
I used to not have, need, or want a job.
I used to feel powerful
In my self-inflicted helplessness.

Isn’t my minivan a kind of coffin?
Can’t a guy who earns a salary
Wax poetic?

Fucker, I used to be alive too, you know.
I used to run with wolves
With butter-knives for teeth.
I used to be a nobody.

Can’t a dead tree still stand?
Can’t a eunuch still pretend to be a man?

Beware the agent?
Beware the writer.

Fucker, I ought to kill you where you sit,
Judging me so aptly,
Smug as a devil with a contract.

Make Charles spin in his grave and grin.




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