the vultures at the zoo
(all three of them)
sit very quietly in their
caged tree
and below

I have just spent one—hour—and—a—h
handicapping tomorrow’s
card.
when am I going to get at the poem
well, they’ll just have to wait

each man must realize
that it can all disappear very
quickly:
the cat, the woman, the job,
the front tire,

I am in this low—slung sports car
painted a deep, rich yellow
driving under an Italian sun.
I have a British accent.
I’m wearing dark shades

this fear of being what they are:
dead.
at least they are not out on the s
are careful to stay indoors, those
pasty mad who sit alone before the

dumb,
Jesus Christ,
some people are so dumb
you can hear them
splashing around

god I got the sad blue blues,
this woman sat there and she
said
are you really Charles
Bukowski?

We are like roses that have never
bloom when we should have bloomed
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting

there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather

the hearse comes through the room
the beheaded, the disappeared, the
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky pas
their wings will not