First of all, I wanna thank Big One of Bukowski fame for posting this link... the reason I got rid of it is because I equate the below poem to a pair of cokeheads spending their night doing lines together and coming up with a business idea/stratagem they believe is genius, only to wake up the next day w/ the realization that patenting zero gravity oven mittens and warehousing them in Manchurian brothels wasn't such a good idea after all. In fact it was dumb
as shit.
Somewhere between dawn and dusk,
between dreams of cathedrals
and crematoriums I am
awakened
in my motel room my roll
by bells tolling Easter Sunday.
I have only dirty sheets to veil
the dirty sounds. They are draped over
the windows like animal hides
butchers
hang to dry,
dripping slowly still the blood
of Christ what was last
night? Was the mile I walked on Mayan
time? I remember graffiti
on a bathroom wall -
something about last-ditch dreams
on this last-ditch isle.
Is this where failed men come after
failing love and war? Are my six
dead soldiers gleaming from
the shelves turning
coke remnants on the cover
of The Marriage of Heaven
and Hell?
It's not the Arab
with the bulletproof pants,
yet I am no closer to the infinite
than the scrubwoman downstairs
cleansing doors with her
with her clunky
cart.
