POEM FOR BUKOWSKI


He was the original
Jack the Ripper
He was the tormentor
Of John Bryan


He was the villain
Of women’s lib
He was the last hope
Of the down and out


He was a Third Reich monster
He was a Hindu Guru
He wrote Harold Norse
Get well cards


He tormented his enemies
He frustrated his friends
He wrote poems in the shit houses
Of America

He wrote poems in the ballet
Of his sleep
He wrote Harold Norse
Get well cards


All he was folks was
The best show in town
Holy Priest Circus clown
The best act around


He was a Roman sonnet
He was an Irish ballad
He was the best Cesar salad
In a gourmet restaurant


He had the face of a moon crater
The stomach of a wheelbarrow
The heart of a whore
Which is more than you can say
For 90% of the poet’s around


He dug Brahms
He dug Beethoven
He was the heavyweight champion
Of Los Angeles
He was the Chaplin of San Pedro
He was stalked by the minor poet’s
Of San Francisco and Los Angeles
And the soft-boiled egg eaters
Of the Café Trieste
He was a rainbow of watercolors
Mixed in with one too many
Sunday morning hangovers


He loved boxing
He loved his daughter
He loved his women


He was an antique book
In a broken down hotel
He was a bottle of aspirin
In an empty water glass
He wrote Harold Norse
Get well cards

All he was folks was
The best damn show
In town

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