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Bukowski Redux

Hank dripped out of Cabernet Sauvignon soaked clouds
mindful of raging pitchforks targeting his presence

Salacious tambourines sucked hands
bending hypnotic soundtracks for this grand prophecy

Theorists suggested Buk was scheduled
for re-entrance to the physical world but were scorned

An aggressive level of statisticians and noble starving artists were
petrified how refreshed landscapes would react to Henry Chinaski

Today, of all bloody hell days, the moment I had my final
interview for a challenging burger server position at T.G.I.Failed

At 3:38 pm on a sweaty Thursday,
across from the cookie-cutter mall parking lot I was frozen within,
Charles Bukowski made reentry into the back alley
of a broken liquor store in Grass Valley, CA

I was 8 minutes late to my meat slop job op
and figured it was my duty as
a belligerent juicehead follower
to enjoy the spectacle presented before me

The Messiah of Black Sparrow Press
who blitzkrieged eye holes with his
Wonderphuckfont which roped wine guts
from Buk’s saucy pure soul into print
exposing all to the depth charge offerings
of this mystical prose dancer

Glass rail cars filled with strawberry cowgirls
smashed traffic routes causing zombie apocalypse
road dumps stunning street urchins for miles

Ambiance was halted for insertion of Bukowski’s
tour travel tunes which leaned heavily in the Too Short arenas
with a healthy mix of Bee Gees B-sides tossed in for balance

All surrounding video and audio capture recordings failed
across digital platforms because Charles liked to
freeze telecommunication for his reunion tours requiring
a detailed inspection of all up-and-coming red wine hangovers

Bukowski Bounces were whispered about around
smokey fire pits but rarely believed
due to lack of evidentiary evidence

Fire music cracked against parked gas cans
as I sat Indian-style on hot cement with hundreds of
open-mouthed fleshed gaspers shadowing me

I was now injected with hope shots that artistic residuals
could be forwarded to those grinding on afterlife stages

I pissed off the interview for a bottle
of Boone’s syrup which happened to be on special
while joining Buk for a jovial pour parade of
burgundy sunshine coupled with a semi-forced spontaneous reading

Booking passage with Hank on his return trip was the
smartest move I would ever make

PLAY-DOH WARRIORS

Erik owned the first nose I ever crushed
with the fresh baby butter folds of my right knuckles

It should have been a broom bristle with the
damage left behind amounting to
the opposite of any abysmal wound feature

Kindergarten reared fierce up-and-coming parolees
in Eastern Compton

Erik had been sniffing around Denise’s cubbyhole
which I was not thrilled about

I had parlayed Denise’s favor in a spectacular
Red Light Green Light classroom battle,
as my confidant for the season

Moves were made to inflict presumed dominance
within scrambler kid units

Five-year-old candy-riddled minds were able to squirrel box
into universes most adults were oblivious existed

Near Beer sponsored bean bag naps provided the network rail lines
for hypnotic giggle messages to be transferred from
one snot-nosed hooligan to another
Naivety added genius-level super thrusters to
our freckle-faced toolboxes

A technicolor inventory of
hopscotched Red Rover energy zappers
would break down teacher after teacher

Every diploma smile brain weaver that entered our
dribble fart student zone was just one shocked face away
from their next adventure towards
unrelenting nervous breakdown chasms and
we were never more proud

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Berthed from mischievous leprechauns near technicolor shadow lands surrounding Honah Lee, Theodore Wallbanger rides mysterious sparkle railcars bursting with crunchy cotton candy clouds dispatched from slippery erotic massage vixens who rage pillow laugh hourly within a splintered transportation module that screams along butterscotch wonder tracks forming vibrations for audiences across Sugar Hill Mountain.

Image generated on Magic Studio