| mission beach goodbye |
|
to burn off the fog completely so now the sky is mottled blue and gray and white, but still there are surfers and joggers plying the fuzzy light and sandpipers skirting the edges of the waves and stinking clumps of desiccated kelp gracing the sand upon which I've walked as far as the cliffs and tide will allow so now, dodging boardwalk bums and roller-blading blondes with bodies and tans that scream don't touch, I make it back to the abandoned roller coaster and hang a left. |
| what I really need |
|
it will be as if I am dead to them, but what I really need is a jewish girl: raven-haired, comely, a daughter of the House of David who will fuck me like a rabbit when I am healthy and cook me chicken soup when I am sick bicker with me over the small things and celebrate with me the grand things and stay with me until our veins are encrusted with amethysts and the wrecking balls start to fly |
| now and at the hour |
| (for Deneille) |
|
dark gray washington d.c. autumn sunday liquid, dripping rain sounds blown, scattering fallen leave sounds Tchaikovsky, bittersweet on the radio |
| evening's ascent |
|
(terns, I think) over Washington Channel bodies straight, wings swallowing searching, seeking suddenly, a fearless vertical dive! splash, muffled croak of victory rising, rising consort to evening's ascent: crescent moon; contrail-sculpted sunset |
| eve of spring |
|
could plead, was not aware that thighs could care, never knew the touch of cool fire or that love could be so full of fury, and yet so tender until you came to me on the eve of spring when the air was laden with the fragrance of rain and the scent of the wildflowers woven in your raven hair |
| whatever happened to Charles Bukowski? |
|
or met his demise by expelling his innards like some sick sea cucumber or came to a bone-crunched, blood-drenched bitter end in some los angeles slum alley but no. Charles Bukowski is not dead Charles Bukowski will live forever only an immortal could have composed the poem rain, and if you ever read this, dear Charles, can I please get an autograph copy of that poem? thank you. |