a woman told a man
when he got off a plane
that I was dead.
a magazine printed
the fact that I was dead
and somebody else said
that they’d heard that I
was dead, and then somebody
wrote an article and said
our Rimbaud our Villon is
dead. at the same time an old
drinking buddy published
a piece stating that I
could no longer write. a
real Judas job. they can’t
wait for me to go, these
farts. well, I’m listening
to Tchaikovsky’s piano
concerto number one and
the announcer said Mahler’s
5th and 10th symphonies
are coming up via
Amsterdam,
and the beerbottles are
on the floor and ash
from my cigarettes
covers my cotton underwear
and my gut, I’ve
told all my girlfriends to
go to hell, and even this
is a better poem than any
of those gravediggers could write.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
