Barflies
I don’t want to talk about bars.
Don’t want to remember them,
the smell of piss and dirty panties.
I don’t want to think about my father
in those days when bars were in my
life because I couldn’t get out of his.
And then I caught on to everybody’s game
and to this day, there are certain kinds
of bars, the kind Todd Moore writes about,
the kind that felt like home to Bukowski,
that I never go into. I don’t care about
any of those guys, those vicious old fucks
and their love for children.
______________________
random violence
at the kitchen table
Charles Bukowski reminds
me of my father, only
my father ended up
a better man somehow.
He pulled himself out
of that miserable neon
shit world of bars.
I caddied at age 11
so I could get one of
those cool shirts that
came all the way from
San Juan, and listened
to him play his new gibson
les paul into a long
Seagrams summer night.
Took me years to understand
why my kid brother hid in
the closet everytime the old
man came home from work.
is this the whole poem? seems cut off.
i think there is a word(s) missing, perhaps. having said that, in considering this and the first poem in tandem, the poet seems to have come a long way…in life, that is. nice writing.
wonderful (if there is something missing or not). and it is nice to see someone slumming Bukowski for a change
it should be fixed–I missed copying/pasting the whole thing–Sorry Robert..
Not a problem, thanks Scot.
Bob