A Poem by Coyote Poetry
Years ago. I met Bukowski in California. I didn’t know who he was, at the time. He read my work and he told me. Good stuff and we talked. Maybe the California coastline I need today.
The silence poet read his words on the first Tuesday night of each month.
Otherwise his voice is quiet,
he prefer the Salinger way over Hemingway loudness.
He wants to be Bukowski,
be brave and write gritty and dirty poetry.
people fear the truth.
He told the listeners on Tuesday night,
most of us love the dirt more than the sweetness.
Easy to digest.
Once he was called the dark poet of Monterey and
now he the old poet of the Lake St. Clair.
He wonder why did Hemingway hid at the end of his life?
Did his own words kill him?
Salinger tried to kill himself a few times.
Few know, he was a man of war.
He saw the blood, he touched the blood and he never was right.
Maybe I will follow the Bukowski path.
Just wait for death and write.