Choke On It

I was working the graveyard,

and sleep just wasn't happening,

so I turned off the television

and started reading a little Bukowski,

it didn't take long to be reminded

that this world, this life,

this moment,

is much bigger

than who we think we are,

that it goes on with

or without us,

he’s taught me many such lessons,

but they never seem to sink in,

so every now and then

I have to pick him back up

for a good kick in the ass,

then climb down from

whatever pedestal I’m standing on

at the time,

forget about what is politically and

grammatically correct,

and just say to hell with it all,

because none of it really matters,

and I couldn't change it

even if it did;

whenever I talk to a

self-proclaimed ‘poet’,

I always ask what they

think of Bukowski,

ninety percent of them say “who?”,

which always tells me a lot,

they always react with such disbelief

when I tell them he is the most

read poet in the twentieth century,

with more published books

than any other poet,

living or dead,

I don’t expect them

to be passionate,

or even like his work,

but I would think if they are

going to call themselves ‘poets’,

they would have at least

have heard of his name,

but then 90 percent of them

aren't really ‘poets';

(are they);

to them poetry is about sweet

sounding words,

which roll around in your mouth

like marbles,

until you have to either

spit them out;

or choke to death.

.

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