The Day Charles Bukowski Died / Gary Frankfurth

The Day Charles Bukowski Died

Deidre's nipple pressed against my eye.
still sleeping, the sheets
knotted beneath us.
Julio was upside-down;
his big toe in Deidre's twat.
I raised my lips and suckled,
half hoping she wouldn't wake up.
I got up;
I was still wearing her teddy.

I: went to the john and threw-up,
pissed and threw-up again.
went to the fridge
and grabbed a beer.
drank it in a single gulp,
then grabbed another.
stepped outside and sat on the curb:
Hollywood Blvd.
nursed the beer in the heat.

Two blue-haired ladies
with matching poodles
went by on the sidewalk.
I: said,
"Come on ladies,
I'll do you both
right now."

Even the dogs knew not to
bark.

I: got up and stumbled,
bashing my knee on the curb.
It dripped blood like a bad washer.
went back inside.
Deidre was straddling Julio.
slipped on my boxers and kissed her
hard on the mouth.
went to the fridge
and grabbed the last beer.

I: turned on the game
and flopped on the couch.
The oscillating fan
moved the heat back
and forth.
dozed-off;
dreamed that
Charles Bukowski dreamed that
he was me.

I: said,
"Goodbye, Charles."
And Charles Bukowski said,
"Goodbye, Charles."

---
Gary Frankfurth
November 2009
Georgia, U.S.A.

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