Laura Puryear Finnell

Looking Out From Charles Bukowski
honorable mention, 2005 poetry contest

Charles and I can agree on at least
one thing: the world
has its sucking days that set us both
to cussing, though I mostly curb it
and he doesn’t even try, just winces
as I kick him from the inside of his temple
and presses his middle finger
against my warm protests.
I rattle around in his slouching memories
and opinions, heaving junk aside, retreating
to the end of the pier when he enters
his gloomy rooms, a woman with him.
I’ve stopped trying to call out to the dumb cunts
to not pick up his books or sit, rapt, while he reads
I turn my back to the lights
of the playa and marina while he
rapes her, then calls his daughter
in the morning.
No, my method would be to stifle
the rumble, out where the Pacific gets
fucking serious,
let the shittiness—oh!—and cacophony
get pounded like only waves or horses
driving past the stands could do.
But Charles takes it all head-on,
discussing the lower elements of his work
with the neighborhood whores, inciting
anyone he can. Even me,
if I stay in here long enough,
old man though he is—
he will set me railing, singing,
crassly ablaze.