Choke On It

I was working the graveyard, and sleep

just wasn't happening,

so I turned off the television,

started reading 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 they never heard of him,

which always tells me a lot,

they always look at me with 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 at least think

if they are going to call themselves ‘poets’,

they would at least have heard

of his name,

but then ninety 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 either have to spit them out,

or choke to death.

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