first time my father overheard me
this bit of music he asked me,
“what is it?”
“it’s called Love For Three Oran
I informed him.

the lady has me temporarily off th
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight—
instead of listening to Shostakovi

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

she reads to me from the New York
which I don’t buy, don’t know
how they get in here, but it’s
something about the Mafia
one of the heads of the Mafia

sometimes you climb out of bed in
I’m not going to make it, but you
remembering all the times you’ve f
you walk to the bathroom, do your
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my,

“you know,” she said, “you were at
the bar so you didn’t see
but I danced with this guy.
we danced and we danced
close.

here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in dra
here comes nothing to do all day l
here comes another night of no sle
here comes the phone wringing the

I still get letters in the mail, m
men in tiny rooms with factory job
living with whores or no woman at
booze and madness.
Most of their letters are on lined

To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine—
just a lightbulb

when you’re young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting