Bukowski Loved Me

Bukowski loved me
as much as he loved what
strokes of barstruck genius
left his chin,
hit the floor,
turned into staggered poetry

I was a little girl
on gin-soaked mattresses,
his alcoholic fevers
rushing my body
as termites storm African hills,
getting up later,
drink some more,
write about the experience

It was always about the experience

Bukowski loved me
as much as he loved the words
he smashed into the air,
fell apart on furniture,
speaking to
future analogies

I was a little girl
down at the police station;
He was found
sleeping in the alley;
in the cell, it took
3 cigarette packets
to write about
the experience

It was always about the experience

Bukowski loved me
as long as his wife
was out of town,
or he said she was his wife;
More matrimony immersed
in drunken verse and talking gin

I was a little girl
Head slapped awake
By an angry mistress
Calling me a dirty whore
I scratched her arms,
She bit my hand
The blood on the bed
was not from love

But there was Charlie
Smiling behind his glass
writing about the experience

It was always about the experience

On the resignation of Tony Blair

This compressed lionheart,
Passive in the winds
of public opinion

Gave way to shrinking
Violets mouthing
Fingers in opposition

He tried too hard
To Keep the peace
With the wrong people

(V.1 from Walden’s Coffee house, Sept.17.2006)

Showers (for Frank @ the La Mesa Guitar Center and Leah)

Showers in this town
are a pain in the ass:
water runs too hot or too cold,
per convenient switches
in local mores.

the expected response, with
the omnipresent smile, is always:

“Yes, I had a good time taking care of myself this morning”

which translates to:

“I had no choice but to forgive you
for cutting me off on 1-8, profusely waving
your blessings as you force me
out of my lane,
nicking me in the process”

never mind that my boss,
pure of heart and soul
was put on leave
and I may be next,
even tho’ I hate my job,
and am just among kindred
spirits fixing mic displays,
fending off obliterations
from clueless hobbyists
as we discuss
social deconstruction
according to Steely Dan.

never mind that Leah and I
were accosted in North Park
the other night by tortilla peddlers
who mistook us for INS agents

not that I could blame them;
all white people want to
serve notice these days

I’m further proof positive
that charred intellectuals
turned biopsy entrepeneurs
and their military cohorts
have my best interests at heart
whenever they fly
over rush hour traffic
wanting a sample

2003

(Revised September 12, 2006)

Jealous Straight Women and Their Gay Counterparts…

two girls kissing each other
waiting for a table
at my favorite café

I watch them
seduce each other
over eggs and toast:

wind-tousled, fog kissed hair
cover faces lost
in cherubic, hyper-estrogeronic stares

I write this because
I’m jealous of the
way they look

to the world
as if they haven’t a care
when I know

about the screams
and the punches
that fuck up their nights

when I bang on the ceiling
and yell “keep it down
before I call the cops”

1998

(Revised September 12, 2006)

It’s so high school!

No, we don’t talk
Haven’t since I left;

He tore into my heart,
mangled spokes in my feelings;
mocking his honor
of not caring

They’re not the worst
things to happen to me.

If I cross him
on the street
I’m sure he’d jump
to the other side;
eyes dancing in
blazes of deridement

In the remote chance
of reconciliation
he’ll know where I live

Permission granted
into the sweltering forests
of my furtive imagination

Noone would ever know
what went down,
for do we grant
further free passes
to those who don’t care?

D-Tags: Poetry

Nothing else to write about (V.1)

Present this as such
to coffeehouse whores;
bored lit girls
nerdy skate boys
crowds of torn t-shirt dissonance
on a Saturday afternoon

These things would not look out of place in Vienna
no shamed sex shops here
no covert attempts at disdained industries
despite stone churches on every corner
the khaki from Hawthorne now a stalled, bitter joke

Ceramic Heart V.1.1

The exact shape of the beer bottle
I dropped to splinter my canvas
into shards of virtrol
is the same as the look on your face
when giving mixed signals in tandem

Too much work in
deciphering your emotional art

Colors of your presence
laugh at words
I create from nothing
and melt into sand;
wooden rods invited
to pierce this ceramic heart

An analysis of lyrics by 80s British Rock Stars

A pretense among 80’s
british rock stars was to
pass off the lyrics to
their songs as poetry.

promoting a myth of substance
in music that started with Dylan;
willfully obscuring empty messages in
junky metaphor and vacuous imagery
(which is what I do, too, but anyway…)

In Boy George’s case,
I could completely understand
because I really didn’t want to hurt him.

But what did Simon LeBon have to hide
when he asked if there was
something he should know?

2003

(Revised 2005)

Education

An old teacher
told my husband
straight up
“Our job is to not
teach but
to mold children into
positive contributors
to society”

So I followed these crumbs
dropped as gold plates
along the public school path
hoping to find Gurdjieff
on the other side

God knows,
my parents and educators
were never there to
show me the way

watching Kelly Komstoft cry
as her library copy of the
Three Musketeers is snatched
from her 8 year old eyes;
told she was too young
for that kind of work

knives out for
my twelve year old hands
holding copies of books
by DH Lawrence and
LPs by Tom Waits

the ruckus
when I told my parents
we would be studying
Dante’s Inferno in my
8th Grade literature class

disgust disguised as giggling
as I started to write
sonnets sung to whores
at age 14.

it’s just a phase, they said
when I stole the car;

snuck out of town
to see, of all things,
a Depeche Mode concert
(Hell, I was exploring
what passed for
Druidism at the time)

when I went wandering
through the nearby
industrial park late at night
bellowing some two-bit
top 40 hit at
the top of my lungs
because I was too trapped
and enraged to care, even
when chased home by
bored, would-be wolverines.

every night spent
breaking some minor, thoughtful
code of societal sanity
brought me closer to
a pillow in heaven each time.

2001

(Revised 2005)

Nina Simone on a Bad Day

A catchall in the
phrase of love

the way you touch me,
always singing
in your early 1960’s breath;
holding my hand
over your callous,
staged fire

I’ve got all the time
for you to roll in
your ancient, anticipated
dances, commonly referred
to as lies and deception

I’m a black widow
hot on the web
of your lounge music;
I can’t concentrate
on all the noise
that was to
inspire me;

I feel like Nina Simone
on a very bad day

2000

(Revised 2005)