Tuesday, August 16, 2016


Fuckers say,"Happy birthday, Bukowski."
They toast him with Coors or Johnnie Walker Red.
It's the thing to do because Buk will never be dead, babies.
He lives on in racing horses, Beethoven blaring radios,
wallet stealing whores and the hungover postal workers
who abide them.
He lives on in me
sitting here in my dirty blue jeans and Jimi Hendrix t-shirt
at my ex-husband's computer
with Love is a Dog From Hell in my lap.
I could tell you some things
but all you need to know is
in a few hours I'll drive too many miles past
Family Dollar
Taco Bell
Speedy Cash
Babies R Us
to sit in some stale hell for nine hours
learning how to sell the American customer
more shit they think they need.
An overweight chick in pigtails is celebrating her birthday today.
She's bringing cupcakes.
"Does anyone have any food allergies?" she asked.
No one said anything
so no one will die.
I don't think Bukowski ate much birthday cake.
I think Bukowski would agree with me
that you don't blow out candles
and make wishes beyond the grave.
But it's good people are toasting him instead of Madonna,
a lesser Leo born on the same day.
It's a material world.
We're all material girls.
Until we die.
Then we're something much less Black Sparrow Press
and MTV.
Or is it much more?
None of us know shit about shit.
It's kind of cute
how we pretend otherwise.
This Shiner Bock
ain't gonna drink

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