Hank

Hank

Bukowski wrote "thousands"
of poems, some of which
just are not that impressive.
Still he wrote them, and one
needs to read them cuz each one,
each word brings you closer
to the wrecked hulk alcoholic
sexist barfighter poet he was.
It does help me to have
more faith in my own scribbling
as long as I do not lament
that I have not actually
published jack shit, and
even if I did, so what, it
wouldn't make a dime, and
so my plan of beginning to
build my Poetic image, my
yettofind reputation as
a poet, out there in front
of an audience, at Poetry
Slams, and Poetry Readings,
at festivals, on street
corners, in men's rooms while
holding towels for jack off artists
and fags, on the steps
of the capitol building in Olympia,
in that little park adjacent to
the old TAG building, down the street
from the Pantages in Tacoma,
during Sumner days, at pow wows,
at picnics, during breakins,
at theaters while plays are
being performed, in women's rooms
while they are doing mysterious
shit in their stalls,
in restaurants in the kitchens
while fry cooks are bustling
over fryers and burning toast,
in the back seats of police cars
while they are in pursuit
of stupid street racers,
standing next to drug dealers
while they play pocket pool
and await their next score,
in coffee houses over in the
corner by the CD's and books,
in public libraries, several of
them since I will be tossed out
quickly for being too noisey
and verbose, in hardware stores
next to rakes and shovels
when I am not standing near
to the paint aisle, or
the nuts and bolts, at the
fish cannery wherever I can find
one, like the dinky one
on the Quinalt Indian Reservation
in the shithole of Taholah,
or that park next to the Public Market,
when I am not hovering
next to those smiling dudes
who toss fish and catch them
for the tourists.
I suspect there is a poem
in here somewhere too,
and like an itch between
your shoulders that is
hard to scratch, somehow
I will, find it
and scratch it
and the momentary
relief will placate my
present obsession with
Bukowski whom I never
would have liked, probably
would have found myself
in a fistfight with, but
still like the audacity
and raunchy riffs he set
into the muddy currents
of literature, and perhaps
even Harvey Goldner would
agree, or Bobby Byrd would,
or might, that Bukowski
was necessary for us all,
part of our poetic rights
of passage, and hell
he lived to be 74 years old
even though he lived
like a drunken wharf rat
and probably never gave
a shit who was president,
or how much the price of oil
vexes the rest of us,
but come to think of it,
every once in a while,
when he was not too fixated
on pussy, wine, beer, his
cock, rats and roaches,
he did make some noise
about the injustices
and inequities he witnessed
during sobriety, between
bar flys, when he could
hold his food down,
and he felt good enough
to walk to the store,
or shave, so hey,
who am I to be fixated
or focused on his life,
his poetry, his broads?
This is probably just
another phase I'm going
through, although I must
say I have come back
to Bukowski several times
this year.

Glenn Buttkus May 2009