Thanks Hank

the squirrels become playful in September,

running to and fro,

chasing each other up and down trees

and telephone poles,

it makes me wonder what they know

that I don’t,

they drive Petey,

my Jack Russell terrier bonkers,

he whines and pulls at his leash,

dying to sink his sharp little teeth

into fresh killed squirrel hide;

life is easy in September;

I have been recovering from spinal surgery

for almost two months now,

I’ve learned if I sit very still

the pain running down my leg isn’t so bad,

I thought the pain would be gone by now

but I guess it is not to be,

sometimes I think it is for the best,

we need a little pain in life

to keep it all in perspective,

a gentle reminder,

a little thorn in the flesh

as the apostle Paul would say;

I picked up another Bukowski book the other day,

it was the first time in years,

I read one called ’35 seconds’ in the store

and it made me laugh out loud,

so I bought it,

“and that’s how

I hurt my

arm” – 35 Seconds, Charles Bukowski

I guess you had to be there

to really get it,

he truly was a literary genius,

despite what the main stream

poetry world might think,

you have to read him very closely

to understand the depth of his pain,

and you have to read him even closer

to grasp the inner humor

that carried him through it;

most never get that close;

for most it is more

than they can bear,

they want their poetry

just like they want their life,

clean and sterile,

full of fantasy and fluff,

fresh from the minds

of those who never venture

outside their keyboards,

with freshly printed MFA degrees

hanging on the ‘studio’ wall,

minimizing and dismissing

anything that is uncomfortable

or real, calling it sloppy,

searching for technical and grammatical

correctness within words that are

empty and dead,

of course they don’t see it this way,

they would tell you just the opposite,

but their words give them away;

thank goodness he lived it for us,

so we wouldn’t have to;

as I read him,

I wondered if he ever got the chance

to know the Lord,

not the one pushed by religion

or other man-made institutions,

but the real One,

the One who heals,

the One who saves,

the One who forgives,

the One who softly whispers

in the middle of the night:

“Don’t be afraid, just believe.”

the friend who sticks closer

than a brother,

my King,

my Everything;

I feel I know him well enough,

Bukowski that is,

that if he ever had the opportunity

like I did,

he would have seen the truth,

he would have understood the message,

his eyes would have been blind no more;

but I guess I’ll never know;

I think about how nice it would be

when I finally do enter the world

prepared for those who belong to the Lord

if I saw him there,

his dead pan, unassuming face,

quietly watching,

silently observing,

finally at peace;

completely healed;

how great it would be

if I could thank him

for exploring the parts

of the darkness I never could,

the parts that I probably never would

have survived,

the parts that would have destroyed me

forever,

then for writing it all down

so I didn’t have to;

for helping me along this journey

when no one else could;

“Thanks Hank.”

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