Bukowski Poem

B Bob Flanagan Bob Flanagan
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#listen-container { display: inline-block; padding: 9px 15px; background: #10578E; cursor: pointer; transition: all 0.3s ease; border: 1px solid #1791ef; border-bottom: 1px solid #156caf; -webkit-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; -moz-box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; box-shadow: 0 1px 0 #156caf; } #listen-container:hover { background: #2f9cf1; } #listen-container a { color: #fff; } .listen-container-svg { fill: #fff; height: 20px; width: 22px; margin-right: 5px; } #text-player { margin-right: 0; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; top: -3px; position: relative; float: none; font-family: "Roboto","sans-serif"; font-size: 12px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.1em; } Listen to this Poem Your browser does not support the audio element. I started writing this poem where Pamela and I are sitting in a bar in Santa Monica and she shows me some of her new poems. I tell her they're not very good and she starts yelling and throwing glasses and all of a sudden I realize it sounds a lot like a Bukowski poem. Shit, I say, it sounds a lot like a Bukowski poem. What am I doing writing like Bukowski? I rip it up and toss it on the floor beside the ants and the empty bottles and Pamela's candy wrappers. What's wrong with you? she asks. Oh, nothing, I say, it's just that I'm starting to write like Bukowski. Well, what's wrong with that, she says. He's a nice guy. I talked to him on the phone one time. I asked him if he'd like to do a reading. He said no but to keep buying his books. There's nothing wrong with Bukowski, I say. I just don't want to write like him. I have a hard enough time writing my own stuff, let alone Bukowski's too. And besides, he's doing an ok job of it on his own. I go to the refrigerator for a beer but there's just a lot of milk and Pepsi-Cola. How come we don't have any beer? I ask. Don't be an ass, she says. You know we never buy beer. Since when do you want a beer? I think you're going out of your mind, she says. You may be right, I say. And I go into the bathroom and feel like vomiting but can't. I fill the tub with hot water. CHRIST! I yell. I don't take baths; Bukowski takes baths; I take showers! I shut the water off and sit down on the crapper. I'm constipated and I have hemorrhoids and Pamela is pounding on the door. Hurry-up in there, she says; I HAVE TO TAKE A PISS! Ok, I say, it figures--somebody has to piss in this poem; it wouldn't be right without pissing.

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