first thing i do when
i get to work is make a
chapbook

three sheets of paper
folded in half & stapled
in the crease & i
try & write something--
i figure i have
12 pages

in between customers
i scribble something
kind of like
WCW but i
don't use prescription
pads

sometimes i'll grab
a book of poetry &
skim poems & hope
for inspiration

lately, its been
bukowskI--
that irascible
drunkard
poet from the
west coast--

i've had three
false starts
so far

so i read
Buk:
read about his
drinking
& womanizing & horsetrack
shenanigans

& look for inspiration
somewhere

its not easy
trust me

memories through typing

i'd like to go
back twenty years
& type this poem
on an eye-bee-emm
selectric typewriter

i have fond memories
of that heavy, blue,
metallic goliath

my mom worked
that thing over
like a pickpocket
in time square--
deft, subtle

she owned that machine

the staccato
rat-tat-tat
machine gunfire
would echo through
the house as she banged
out that week's bulletin

the silver ping pong
sized ball looked like
a hammer smacking the ribbon

my father, in
the other room,
would finger-peck
his sermon into
existence &
then practice it
over & over again

(rehearsing
rehearsing)

out loud until he
had it mostly memorized
so he could
speak salvation
to his little country
flock

next sunday

Making Weight

He sat across from nobody and
peeled the sandwich apart to
scrape off the peanut butter.
Except for the hint of peanut butter.
Then he ate the lonely bread
and drank four glasses
of water.

"The bread will expand in my
stomach, and I'll feel like I
ate more," he said white-faced.
Thin. Sick looking. Eyes dark.

A hooded sweatshirt running endless
laps in the gymnasium. Sweating out
evenings.

He did not die that year. Or his junior or
senior year, even if his body
wanted him to. Even if it was
telling him to, he did not.
He spent the hot and cold months
throwing his body against the walls of
youth and succeeding and failing.
Endless running in a sweatshirt.

These things sent him
into college, where he studied and
learned.
After graduating he
designed a lever that goes in the air conditioning
of your car.
All cars have them now. All cars have
them now.

He became wealthy. He could afford all
things. A wife. Children.
He found the way to excess.
The years spread out before him with
colors and reasons and the
vagueness of eternity made its whispers.

Now he lives alone in northern Michigan,
With everyone else.

bukowskiesque

i stared at
myself in the
mirror the other
day:

unshaven

so fat i had
faint purple
stretch marks
by my navel

my red birthmark
that covers my
belly & dips between
my legs looked
like a red flesh balloon

my hair greasy
& uncombed

i looked like a bum:
something a dog
would nose once
turn & bury

i looked like i'd just
come down from a
three day drunk

my eyes were
somewhat bloodshot
& rimmed
in dark shadow

teeth filmy
mouth sour

a mess
unclean

filthy

perhaps these are not poetic times at all

i watch the
news:
disgusts me

watch tv:
nauseates me

read:
bores me

maybe mom is right
maybe i am depressed
i don't feel it, though

its just this whatever
it is-- i must sound so

i dunno

metaphysical
or
heaven forbid

emo

maybe it really is
like giovanni

said--

maybe these aren't
poetic

times

at all

What did I learn?

I don't really know.

I could make something up.

I'm clever enough

to make it sound good

but not too good,

still believable.

Truthfully, I don't know

if I learned anything at all.

skeleton horses pull treasure chests
on rickety wooden wheeled carts
in the damp dank basement
beat the dead horse
one
more
time