What Bukowski Has Done

Watching tv interviews with Bukowski,
I can't look away from him--
that stumbling, bumbling, asshole drunkard
who has shown everyone my insides.

Every burp and raspy swallow,
purging poetry in a voice that drags,
all my secrets droned on and on and on. . .
for the masses to lick clean.

I am reminded of things.
Emotions which have clung to the vacant corners
of my throbbing brain:

Father's shiny beer gut winks
at a nervous, pimpling grocery boy.
A squeak asks paper or plastic?
and the belly gets scratched with fingers
too bloated for a wedding ring.

On the telephone line--
Mother's words are all one again, wet vowels stretch
across an American afternoon.
Little brother in the background, tugging
at a three-day old sleeve, asking
can't I come back?

There are places you can never leave,
like how I can still smell cat piss
and lies under a man's breath,
how the color of vodka
has stained my sight clear.

Bukowski reminds me that I am a human;
Each morning, I scrub my skin raw with soap
only to pretend that the filth goes away.

COPYRIGHT 2010 CARRIE-LYNNE DAVIS