poem of the day 09.26.12

bukowski t-shirt

sitting with the pittsburgh poets

at lou’s little corner tavern

i’ve got a stack of their books next to me

and cheap pitchers of yuengling crowding the table

i’m looking for inspiration

but all i’ve got is some yinzer barfly at my back

yapping about my bukowski t-shirt

before he came over

we’d been watching the giants/cowboys game

and talking shop

talking poetic gibberish

reconfiguring the past

treading awkward and carefully on the present

we’d been eating his cigarettes for about an hour

these little indian bidis

that blow purple smoke

and probably give one cancer upon impact

but he keeps tapping me on the shoulder

pointing at my shirt

saying, bukowski, man, bukowski

you just don’t see t-shirts like that in this place

of course that’s when i turn around to take in the joint

the teased hair of the bartender

the row of fleshy desperation lining up at the bar

the rat faced, emaciated whatevers

playing pool under white flood lights

and think that i’ve been coming into joints like this

for far too long

having too many conversations like these to kill the hours

and everything is beginning to look the same

whether or not i’m in pittsburgh, brooklyn,

or on the east end of madrid

i think i might be getting too old

still, he’s right

i’m the only one wearing a bukowski t-shirt

in this place

to tell the truth

i hardly ever wear the thing

because i’m worried that i’ll get a stain on it

or that some asshole

will say, hey, that’s a bukowski t-shirt

and i won’t know what to say

except, yes, yes it is

i tell him i got it in pasadena

at some bukowski exhibit

that i got to see buk’s typewriter

and his old, used wine glass as well

but he stares at me like i could’ve got the shirt

on mars for all he cares

so i tell him maybe bukowski would’ve

liked a place like lou’s

back in the old bar fight days

thinking that’ll end the conversation

but all he says is hot water music, man

hot water music

that’s my favorite book

then takes my hand in his like we’re old lovers

my red eyes staring into his red eyes

until the bartender tells him to go home and sleep it off

so that all of us poets can get back

to talking about everything

that poets talk about

all our books and our wardrobes

over beers

on a humid wednesday night

in good old pittsburgh, pa.