Wednesday, January 27, 2016


I like when Bukowski refers to food as fuel
He’s got it right
When he kicked her repeatedly until she got off the couch he filled me with fear

I guess you’d call this free or blank verse
I don’t fucking know
I try not to give it much thought as long as the words keep advancing like potbelly stoves

They come
In drips, drabs and streams of unconsciousness
Maybe it was a Freudian slip or maybe it was improv at its most oedipal

Don’t forget why you’re here
Don’t forget when she turned you onto Brautigan
Bukowski went the distance even when words and alcohol pounded him senseless

Charles Cicirella

No comments: