The I-10, Bukowski in Shotgun (Poem)

I have this swirl of Ardbeg in my tummy.

Sliding down so easy,

the way southern drawl spills from the tongue,

warm and full of innuendo,

like a pair of tits.

There are some little things I want to get up to in the deep south.

Not a thing too soul stirring, my good Sir.

I can’t be pensive at a party of switchback smiles.

But please stop moaning about loneliness; you sound like Bukowski.

And we roadie on to some dude’s porch,

play some poker,

and I put a finger on my temple.

Look up at those clouds and see those mighty planes.

But where could I ever go on vacation that would make me forget all the lies told by lips on thighs.

Trying to remember the directions: something about the third star to the right –but I got lost somewhere around the sun.

“Roll with the punches,” they say,

down the stairs and down the street,

but the years spin by like my records.

A song for a day,

a week,

a month,

a decade.

But the vinyl's all scratched now,

cause someone got careless with the stylus,

but most likely their hands.

I’m chewing glass and grinning.

I’m throwing up and pirouetting.

But hey man,

lose your pretty friend before we go get lost in the gutter.

I need your full attention,

because that’s love,

says the masochist.

Like an open bed in an open grave,

I wake up every morning realizing the fox in the henhouse is me.

Afraid?

Just stop bragging about that bluebird you keep in a cage; you sound like fucking Bukowski.

All my friends are royal fuckups,

totally inept,

but they’re fun to have around unless you find joy in a moment with a McNugget,

or a misogynistic sadist.

Sitting in bathtubs on rooftops,

having conversations with the moon

about how Gemini’s always fall for “little dark haired” girls,

and how down the street ,

there’s a motel on the corner where weeks roll by like years,

but when each night wears off,

the site of detonation always reappears.

And you bite your tongue on the word derivative,

because we all settle so nicely in places we can never leave.

Everyone’s asleep,

but the morning sunshine tastes like bourbon,

but only like when you drink it in New Orleans.

And it feels too good, this swirl in my gut,

the naked body next to me,

that I just might raise him up,

like a Lazarus.

Pat him on the head and

pull lovingly at that grizzled beard.

Tell me about a girl, Charles.

The last one you fucked, Charles.

Something obscene, Charles.

Your life’s a typewriter page, Charles.

You’re always stoned in a motel with your poems,

and sober in a woman’s arms.

But sex is all around,

and somehow,

nowhere near you.

Can you shut up, your bravado leans too Bukowski, Charles.

And by the time we get to Baton Rouge

we’ll already be masturbating

because I can see Pontchartrain laid out like a whore,

and the neon saloon lights of the Quarter

remind me of debutantes in ball gowns,

opening their knees in the back seats of cheap pickups.

Because this city is really a row of dilapidated shotguns

rotting under the cypresses,

concealed behind the flaking makeup of a girl called Clementine,

always shaking her ass somewhere out on Chartres,

always in a purple coat,

always out of focus.

And so,

you never really know,

even after you slide between her thighs,

whether she was ever really beautiful.

Because there’s no money here,

down here,

where a true Atlantis sank,

and now all the beautiful boys come diving down,

down to kiss the conjure woman

and steal their little bit of the devil from the voodoo queen.

So I’ll call my bets and head for the oracle over on Magazine,

because no one asks questions under the red light

where hips sway sultry and she says soul food.

Just make sure to set fire to those bridges on your way out of town.

But I need to stop talking frustrated anyway,

because I sound like goddamned Bukowski.

And so,

my people are freaks,

but such fun to have at parties.

Terror, like charity, begins at home.

And we all say we don’t like the manic insanity,

the anxiety,

the “sad sads,”

but keep inviting the madness to out mattresses.

And we’ve always got this chip on our shoulder about the way things should have been.

Or could have been.

But such a hard on for the fucked up way everything turned out.

bvk, 2020.