poem of the day 07.18.09

this is why i hate dreams

some kind of seminar
some kind of bonfire
with wooden chairs and dancing
anyway a mix of the worst
of both kinds of worlds
and rows of women
that i’m in the middle of
reaching my hand up casually
to scratch my forehead
she accuses me of trying to assault her
beat her?
force myself on her?
i don’t know
she’s big-eyed and blonde
looks like a hollywood actress
and she’s screaming and yelling
and the other women get involved
as the bonfire rages and morons dance
and they begin to mock me
so i rise from my chair and walk toward a lone fire
where charles bukowski is coming toward me
dressed in brown pants and a red flannel shirt
hank looks like he did in the 1970s with the
long, slick-backed hair and the beard
his face a mess of old pock marks
he’s holding a plate of fried chicken
and french fries and these hot pepper ringlets
and i can tell that he’s drunk by the eyes
i hope that i am drunk too
but i gather i’m not
and buk keeps dropping pieces of his chicken and fries
shoving the pepper ringlets down his shirt
while i’m on the ground trying to pick everything back up
and now the row of women are starting in on the both of us
hank and i
i’m trying to stare them down
but hank just laughs at them
then he falls on the grass beside me
and we put all of the food back on his plate
as a voice comes over the loud speaker
and people cheer
but we ignore it all and begin to eat.