Years ago I was talking to this ex-girlfriend who let it drop that she had seen some documentary on Bukowski, and gotten into his work a bit, and hey you know what he really reminds me of you, and vice versa. I took her to my bathroom, and pointed out the copy of Love is a Dog From Hell deposited in the steel basket that hung on the side of my toilet’s tank. I said: I really don’t appreciate this sort of coincidence.

And so I was forced to deal with the weight of someone to whom I had once been close associating me with marginally famous alcoholic misogynists.

Have a poem. Second stanza from the end basically describes every woman I’ve ever been involved with:

huge ear rings

I go to pick her up,
she’s on some errand.
she always has errands
many things to do.

she comes out of her apartment
I see her move toward my car

she is barefooted
dressed casually
except for huge ear rings

I light a cigarette
and when I look up
she is stretched out on the street

a quite bust street

all 112 pounds of her
as beautiful as anything you might

I switch on the radio
and wait for her to get up.

she does.

I flip the car door open.
she gets in. I drive away from the
curb. she likes the song on the radio
she turns the radio up.

she seems to like all the songs
she seems to know all the songs
each time I see her she looks better
and better

200 years ago they would have burned her
at the stake

now she puts on her
mascara as we
drive along.

But I’m really not much of a fan.


~ by ironcupshrug on 02/01/2010.

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