the arrogant and uncomfortable truth of things
I’m putting up the poems for good this time.
I’m hanging them outside
on that rusty fence made of wire
hoping the poems with suffer tetanus and die.
I’m wadding them up
lighting them on fire
or just plain deleting them to oblivion.
I’m serious.
I can’t get anything done
with these fucking poems hanging around.
But-
It seems the more I hide them away
the more I see your poems.
Those poor little poems
packaged so pretty
with nothing inside except dust and spit.
I just shake my head
pull the old bastards out
and tinker some more.
Somebody has to do it
if only for the love of all poetry.
Somebody has to balance out the shit.
-this poem appears in Calliope nerve XI
Wow, I love this one!
The picture fits perfectly too, who is it of?
That is the venerable and pitiful Charles Bukowski. I wrote a couple of poems that seemed to channel him, in a way. This is one of them. The other one is even meaner. It’s yours if you want the poem, of course.
I just took it for issue eleven of Calliope Nerve. Thank you! This poem is really good.
I’m glad you like it.