An Ode to Bukowski
Hell is a terrible place to tell a joke said the
man with the beard, as if God poured him
his cup of wine every night and whispered
the water into his rivers. and I’ve never
known how to love what i can’t see, you can
ask her and her and her, so your words
crawl to me. they don’t look me in the eyes,
so i listen just to listen, as we all do, when
the bearded men speak about something
they know. one day I'll speak of everything i
know. I'll stand in those bearded shoes and
I’ll tell you i know everything, I’ll tell you i
know the winds secrets and the suns
despair, i know the stars don’t care much for
the moon. those selfish, selfish stars. I know
how to dance in hell and sing in heaven. I’ll
tell you I love you and you’ll listen just as we
all do to the bearded men with too much to
say. I’ll tell you about the curse words we
say when the air feels too tight to choke on
another lie. I’ll tell you I know everything. As
all the bearded men do. And I’ll pour your
wine and put the water in your rivers. I’m no
God. God is stuck in my email chain with
Bukowski and a bottle of rum, talking about
New Orleans and yesterdays’ love story,
they laugh and curse at the rain and
Monday’s. And I don’t know a damn thing,
my clean-shaven face knows only the
security of yours and the way you stare at
my insolence like it will grow old with you,
like it knows your mother. So tell me how to
walk you bearded man, but you’ll never
steal the beautiful greed off her face, and I’ll
take my words to my grave and spit them at
God like he’s taking notes. So all I ask is
you shave my face when I go, and bury me
with a smile, knowing I knew nothing at all.