Charles Bukowski
big black beard
tells me
that I don’t feel
terror
 
I look at him
my gut rattles
gravel
 
I see his eyes
look upward
 
he’s strong
 
has dirty fingernails
 
and upon the walls:
scabbards.
 
he knows things:
 
books
the odds
the best road
home
 
I like him
but I think he
lies
 
(I’m not sure
he lies)
 
his wife sits
in a dark
corner
 
when I first met
her she was the
most beautiful
woman
I had ever
seen
 
now she has
become
his twin
 
perhaps not his
fault:
 
perhaps the thing
does us all
like that
 
yet after I leave
their house
I feel terror
 
the moon looks
diseased
 
my hands slip
on the
steering wheel
 
I get my car
out
and down the
hill
 
almost crash it
into a
blue-green
parked car
clod me forever,
Beatrice
 
wavering poet, ha
haha
 
dinky dog of
terror.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...



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