one please-master day you speak to cameras telling
world you’ve liver cancer two vortex days you
pass
you’ve chosen best day to speak softly farewell
about
death its coming predictable as Cassiopeia’s
Chair
its big-time-neon-brilliant you bulb screwed into
it
that easy mad leap from your bones you the crooked
cucumber of death you prophet against fabled damned
your first line is gift you headline-radio-brain-amanuensis
scrolling words from Bihar where asphodel Buddha sat
writing words directly from war-lips-cute-radiant
Che
your last lines yage-queer shoulder greyhound sunflower
still writing rose-in-the-brain-shards until transcendental
cirrhosis turns you into deathly gutter 10th Street
cadaver
I remember once at poetry reading your piercing eyes
peer through me knowing I might be quick-love-fuck
I too shy too insecure but yes I wanted you to prick
me
hard semen transforming me from wasp nebbish into
poet but I had to wait years before meat words came
George Sparling
23
BUKOWSKIS,
Black Sparrow books I bought hard way, waiting for
that perfect, coincidental
moment when the store, my money, your books, and the
synchronistic presence
all congealed in asthmatic-dusty secondhand bookstores.
With each re-reading,
I understand why it is that I hope to die in my current
small triplex apartment
because it’ll be impossible to find any other
as shabby yet affordable as mine.
But, I hope to surpass your 74 years because you did
everything imaginable to
damage your élan vital, though you weren’t
ever a quitter. I want to make your
San Pedro tombstone a greater literary memorial than
Jim Morrison’s in the Cimetiere
du Pere-Lachaise, you who write what “the tragedy-sniffers
are all//about” and
“when it goes dark/it will be another world/not
quite so magic/not quite so good//
when it goes dark.” You’re so good at
pulling down the shades, like me, but I’ve
got dirty Venetian blinds and I keep them mostly closed.
Yes, I refuse to buy your
books new, that’s cheating; yours I’ve
purchased aren’t gleaming, clean, they’ve
funky inscriptions scrawled on them, like, “Here’s
to remember our first fuck,” but
that couldn’t top your “The ass is the
face of the soul of sex.” Your books have jelly
stains, poetry highlighted in yellow as if to let
in bits of sunshine, and my search for
your books had to flow as your spare, skeletal-life
of words. But, I confess, I’d a recur- ring
image of you lying stiff in your own death-blood pooling
at your head on-the-one-a.m.-floor of the Seven-G’s
bar, though poetic justice wouldn’t allow that
happening to
a man who writes, “Great Poets Die in Steaming
Pots of Shit.” Your books I buy caressed with
rusty droplets, short stanzas lined with rouge, catsup,
lip gloss, perhaps a young woman’s come, perhaps
workingman’s sperm. I read you knowing pain-driven,
flop- house failures had also absorbed you, because
only the “poor knew the meaning of life,”
you who, in buggy, fatigued, beery rooms, tried to
put a mighty stake through banality’s ugly,
middle-class heart. Your poetry gets written to Tchaikovsky’s
Pathetique and Sho- stakovich’s bloody 7th,
the Leningrad one. You’re drunk reading Schopenhauer,
ecstatic savoring Voyage du bout de la nuit, you who
kept notoriously looking in the rearview mirror at
Carthage. All the riffles of your life I want to sewer
through my hands, I want
to feel your habitual vomit dribble between my fingers,
I want to put my nose to your anus, sniffing every
goddamned fart you ever gave to this world.
"I graduated with an English Literature
Degree from Iowa Wesleyan College.I' ve been a welfare
caseworker in East Harlem, a counselor/reading instructor
in the Baltimore City Jail, a bookstore manager, a
hungover crab butcher on the killing docks here in
Humboldt County, and a scuba diver for placer gold
in the northern wilderness of mountainous California
for the maximum amount of time before going mad. It's
no cliche: I could have lost it all if I'd stayed
in the back-country a few days longer. I like to read
the paranoiac novels of San Francisco's Philip K.
Dick fueled on amphetamine-driven inspiration, the
nihilistic noir novels of Jim Thompson, and enjoy
the work in "The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry"
edited by Alan Kaufman. Also, Kaufman's "Jew
Boy" is something strong and special. And I have
a first edition when I picked up Carolyn Cassady's
"Off the Road," a great book letting in
the light about Neal, Jack and Allen. Currently, I'
m in early retirement."
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