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the white poets

the white poets usually knock quite early
and keep knocking and ringing
ringing and knocking, even though all the shades are down
finally i arise with my hangover
figuring such persistency must mean good fortune
a prize of some sort, female or monetary
"alright, alright" i shout, looking for something to cover my ugly naked body
sometimes i must vomit first, then gargle
the gargle only makes me vomit again
i forget it, go to the door
"hello."
"you bukowksi?"
"yeah, come in."
we sit and look at each other
he, very vigorous and young
latest blooming clothes, all colors and silk
face like a weasel

"you don't remember me?" he asks
"no."
"i was here before, you were rather short,
you didn't like my poems."
"there are plenty of reasons for not liking poems."
"try these,"
he put them on me
they were flatter than the paper they were typed upon
there wasn't a tick, or a flare, not a sound
i've never read less
i said, "uh-uh"
"you mean you don't like them?"
"there's nothing there, it's like a pod of evaporated p*ss."
he took the paper, stood up and walked around
"look bukowski, i'll put some broads from malibu on you. broads
like you've never seen,"
"oh yeah baby?" i asked
"yeah yeah." he said, and ran out the door
his malibu broads were like his poems
they never arrived

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