I Know What You Went Through Bukowski

I don’t like having
to go downstairs in the elevator
to mingle with the assholes down there,
the crowd smoking on the street
in front of the building,
the lost souls walking through the lobby where
the somnolent halfwits linger
waiting to fleece their weary neighbors;
the shouting idiots and
the jackass in the walking boot
and Slayer tee-shirt,
who leans on his crutches until he dashes
away to make a deal;
the big men who want to be women
and dress in dresses that were fashionable
in 1900 and smile inanely
and want your sympathy;
the bored clerk with her nose buried
in a crime novel;
the smell of burning pizza in the
community oven,
the spills and sticky residue of the
soft drink addicts who come and go
like restless blackbirds on a wire;
the dense, incomprehensible flare-ups
borne of jealousy and boredom,
the heartlessness and emptiness
and stupidity crowding through the place,
a teeming, malevolent cesspool
that I’d destroy if I could,
wipe it out and begin anew with
a new plan,
a new mind and better choices,
and direction I’ve never known,
or understood.

I made this your day Bukowski,
and I miss your voice,
your strength,
and I hope to meet
you again when it is my
turn to dance with the sonofabitch
who started all this,
who let it get away from us,
like the peace and sanity
we once craved,
who asked us to comprehend
the word and the way,
who damn well knew we
couldn't and would have to
suffer ourselves, like the others,
waiting, waiting, for the bitterness
to ebb, before finally,
mercifully,
fading away.


TS