how are your balls, bukowski?

my balls are itching,
red, sore
and haven’t
been happy
for years.

that’s all women
really want
no matter what
they say. no one

or two in particular
just lots. and you
try but they’re
so goddamned
fragile and dem-
anding. she’ll say
something like,

“you’re real nasty
when you drink
after we have sex”
and i’ll say
“then go find
yourself
a man who
doesn’t drink
or fuck
so much, but,
for chrissake,
just stick
with him.”

and then i
might call her
a whore or
something and
it’s good
to know that when-

ever a woman
gets out of line
you can just
kick her in
the face.


and i’ve always
thought of
vaginas
like flowers
and myself
a big ugly
grunting mean
sad drunk
frankenstein

and they all say
“have you seen
him? he’s the
new voice of
a new lost
generation.”
i said, “i’m
no great writer,
i can’t even
make an honest
woman”

but then,
that money can
make you
do wonderful things
and drink
the good scotch
not that rat piss
they drink over
on skid row

and i told her
that i always thought
whores were
beautiful, and
i’m not too drunk
yet, but i’m
out of money,
darlin.

i don’t
cry when you’re
gone, i put on
Brahms, sleep
with these
young strangers
who’ve read
my stuff, and

i sit at
my typewriter
and start
wishing it was
a gun.

Tournament of Champions (philosophical nitpicking is for idiots)

I hate that someday im going to die and this has severely affected the entirety of my life. The end is nigh! The end is nigh! And im watching Jeopardy! and drinking guiness. Dinosaurs. New World College Dictionary. Women of Country. Musical Instruments. If its Tuesday, this must be Belgium! I miss you for 600! What is chiraz? Who is faith hill? What is Georgia on my mind? What is gulf war syndrome? What is karaoke in the kitchen? Who is bruce springsteen? What is the end all be all of existence? Failure or failing to say the right thing is a terrible thing to undergo because there are a million other things you could’ve said that could’ve been better but there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Everything dies baby that’s a fact! Someone said that, paul or bruce, or camus, or karl marx. I cant keep track of all the things I hear. Why do you smoke cigarettes? Typically, I smoke them to kill time.

Sunday at the De Young

Ah, to be young, and alive, and appreciative
of company in the afternoon where we try
to be as non-intrusive as possible to Susanna
who is naked in Missouri with pubic hair,
apparently, which says something about the
piece, or artist, or America. I can’t recall. But
it doesn't really matter. Let’s fuck in the
middle of the gallery and confuse people
by being in the wrong section for stains, abstractions
in the midday and you said you had never seen a
Motherwell in person or a Chinese running turtle
but being young and alive is enough excuse for
anything these days. Isn’t it? I’ve never understood
these things, these esoteric declarations, hidden
semaphores like breadcrumbs or like when a writer
says things like, “the afternoon kisses the sky cold
and blushing,” or “your nose soft and wet never
forgot winter.” Without which no cohesive story
could ever manifest beyond silly things like sunsets
and cigarettes rolling between knuckles
and lips and dark clouds in the park waiting
for us to remember that we aren’t quite old
yet and there’s not so much to remember or
contemplate but there’ll be plenty of time
for weeping and such when last night tiptoes
down the hallway in the morning limping
with hairs stuck in teeth and coffee breath
from six days ago when Susanna was still
naked but I was nervous until in the next room
I realized how geometrically sound it all is! And
staring hopelessly at these shapes, I prayed there
was a kennel to put our love until the yard is big enough
and the house has plenty of wall space for stains
and abstractions that I’ll still look at with thick
brow and forehead but enjoying their company
as they stare back giggling at our fetishes
for domestication and oil paints.

Out of Breath: A Literal translation (An Ode to Owning Things)

I will not play at tug o’ war—I’d rather play at hug o’ war
Don’t leave, he says—Sounding like her now
But thinking of logistics—The practicality of rope
Legs braided in the unmade bed—And stomachs
With so much to say—So happy to see each other
They won’t shut up or settle—And we don’t get
Their sick jokes or know the meaning of—Their sounds
It’s like watching a foreign film—Probably French
Given the circumstances—Of dialogue and overt chauvinism
Soverignty spoke tender—And there’s revolution in the air but
You can never tell— With women these days particularly
Women with short hair—They’re absolutely unpredictable
Come closer just for a second—So the line is loose enough for
I—Would like to tie you to this banister and
Kill you with my kisses all night!—For if you
The— End