AND THEY WONDER WHY (original poetry)

What happens when you mix a dollop of Bukowski, a pinch of Raymond Carver and a dash of hobo-era Tom Waits? Maybe you'd get this original poem? Then again, perhaps not.. You decide... And my apologies to fans of the Fab three above...

AND THEY WONDER WHY...
Back when I was seeing the waitress,
I met a ghost at the diner counter.
I dunno, it was three a.m. or so
-- that nevertime where tired
cranky and mellow
become one weird sensation.
Anyway, as I jotted some
meaningless notes into a
notepad full of lost ideas, I felt a
prescence next to me. He had the
entire counter to himself, but
he chose to plop on the
stool right five inches away.
It seemed that he needed the
company, so I placed my pen on
the nearest napkin and said hello.

It looked as if he’d been crying and
his shirt was torn with a bloodstain
streaming from his nose to his mouth.
Scratches all over his face, he was
just a plain mess. I looked around to
see if anyone came in with him but
oddly, I was the only one in the joint.
In fact, the staff was nowhere,
must’ve been scattered in the kitchen.

We talked for about an hour, over coffee
and a half-pack of Winstons. He spoke
of his wife – both sad and angry - gesturing
their argument from earlier that evening.
Every now and again, he’d repeat, “They
wonder why we do the things we do.”
He said that men had it rougher than
we’re ever given credit for. Then he asked about
my own situation and I pointed to
the waitress in a shoulder-shrug sort of way.
He smiled, but quickly, again found his
rant, “We can’t cry or
fuss or carry on like them. We have
to listen to their bullshit complaints.”

I fiddled with a toothpick as I looked
for my Zippo asking, “Whaddya gonna do?”

“Cheat,” he answered. It was a simple,
heartfelt answer that I found funny.
The two of us sat there enjoying its honesty.
I made sure the waitress wasn’t listening
or else I'd get holy Hell on the ride home.
But then my new friend got somber once again
and kept repeating “And they wonder why...”
I never saw him ever again.

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HONEYMOON AT THE ATOMIC (ORIGINAL POETRY)

Back in July I had the fortune of tying the knot in Las Vegas on 777, something I've always wanted to do. Me and the Mrs. were lucky. It was a great time and people we cared about were with us. We ate and drank lavishly and stayed at a gorgeous strip hotel. But what about those people who took the plunge in the fair city who weren't as fortunate? What if no one cared? Posing that question, I give you this narrative poem. Enjoy...



HONEYMOON AT THE ATOMIC
Inside one of the
darkest bars on the planet,
away from the smoldering Vegas
sun, two kids barreled into
my daytime bar, just off of
Freemont. Fresh faced and scrubbed,
he with his craggy polo and
flip-flops; she with an equally
wrinkled sun dress, they didn’t jive
since it was the kind of
joint people came
to when they just
didn’t care anymore.

The Atomic. A would-be beacon in a sea of
grimeholes, beckoning its
hopeless. And what of them?
Lonely Nevada drunks, crappy pickpockets,
former goddesses well beyond turning
their tricks and sunken men without
prospect who abruptly discovered
they were 46, scratchy and achy.
Even the fucking jukebox gave up.
It plays once a year on St. Patty’s Day.

Gillmore behind the bar,
a failed strip magician
plum out of illusions served
the kids their booze. The boy paid
with a thick wad of crinkled
dollar bills, which, by the
way still got you pretty
far at The Atomic.

As the afternoon progressed, their
giddiness got worse and it broke
everyone’s concentration. A few times
I had to put down my magazine and give
them the ol’ once-over. Didn’t do much good.

Clutching my mug, I asked if they
took that clichéd Vegas plunge. The cutie
nodded and Eduardo the Ecuadorian who,
up until then, never uttered a word
to anyone -- in Spanish or English --
raised his Pabst and told Gilmore that he’d get
the next round.

Their bliss told me that no one in
their lives knew where they were or even
even cared. Another sip.
I went back to my magazine.

Five drinks in, they still grappled
onto each other in that sickening
Eskimo kisses sort of way.
At the same time, the act made
me love them for it’s
innocent audacity and hate
them for my own sense of cowardice,
never having the balls for such
public displays.

The boy strutted to the sorry juke
and I knew there’d be nothing in
there for him.
But it didn’t matter, today was his
St. Patty’s Day and he was
ready for the world. Here.
On his honeymoon.
At The Atomic.
Away from the smoldering Vegas sun
and inside one of the darkest
bars on the planet.

The music started. I put down my
magazine and shut my eyes until
it was quiet once again.

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AS WE MOAN...

It's funny how some poems (or stories for that matter) can start with a single image. In this poem's particular case, it's a series of churches engulfed in flames. I started to think about how and why and this is what spewed out. The more I thought about it, the creepier it became to me.

AS WE MOAN
From the peak of the reservation,
I watch the churches burn.
We all do. I stare at maybe
20 or 30 scattered cathedrals
in the distance, as they
smolder into the night.
The carroty sun of dusk
blends into the crimson flames
peppered through the horizon.
No one ever saw this happening.
Not now or here. As the first one
burns through to its frame, the
weeping begins. We weren’t safe
anymore. None of us. Ever.
As they begin to plummet,
the moans grow louder and
louder and then just stops.
Suddenly.

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THE SECRET SOCIETY OF BOURBON DRINKERS

On this day of Thanksgiving, I give everyone this odd, original poem about a little boy and the creation of a future drunk.

THE SECRET SOCIETY
OF BOURBON DRINKERS
Every other night they convened
to talk about whatever.
Be it the Yeti,
price of Gold, horses
or who was on Carson,
they’d yap it up together.
And all over Kentucky’s sweet nectar.
I was about eight or so when I
attended my first gathering.
My uncle snuck me into the back
door of this backwoods juke joint
and plopped me in a torn corner booth
with a folded up Richie Rich comic.
After visiting ‘Ol Phil at the bar
my uncle gave me this sweet red drink.
At the time he called it a “Popeye”
but let’s face facts, I was riding
the Good Ship Lollipop.

After making sure I was settled
he patted me on the head and joined
the fellas. I just stared.
They all seemed so very loud.
One of them kept flicking his
suspenders every time he laughed.
Another didn’t say a word but just
pointed in agreement every time someone
made a point. The leader, or so it
seemed, wore a monocle and every five
minutes or so would look over to me
and nod, making sure I was still with them.
About an hour -- or three Popeyes later,
I was called over to the men. The leader
had me sit on his lap and I looked
for my uncle who was in the two o clock
position. All I really remember now is the smell
of the place – a pungent concoction
of talcum, cigar and tobacco, musk
and bourbon.
Lots of bourbon.
He told me that it was a special night
because I was becoming a special member
of their sacred club. He poured a small
amount into a shot glass and, in an almost
slow motion, slid it over to me.
After the hellfire of the spirit slid
down my young throat all I could think
about was getting another one of those
godforsaken Popeye drinks. But I was now a
member and Phil would have to listen to
me for the rest of my life.

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THE FULL READING (poem)

In celebrating the Lounge's 200th post, I give you this original poem. Somewhere up there - in that great beyond - I hope that Chuck Buk isn't laughing. While I would in no way fancy myself a poet, I will say that the form itself is a wonderful way to tell a short story. It's slightly abstract and perhaps a tad mystical. I hope everyone enjoys.

THE FULL READING
The mystic told me to stay away
in that cold way they do.
I didn’t know if she truly
did know anything but
shit, she certainly sounded
like it, looking at me
all suspicious and
knowing. Like she had one up.
What a gift, to be able
to see through people
and all of their bullshit.
I wish I had that. I’d know
if I was wasting my time
here or there.
As she spoke, I kept looking at the
ocean, onto the horizon, wondering
how far it went...
But I did hear her.
Stay away, she advised once more.
She kept asking me odd questions as
if I knew what she meant. Then she
asked if I wanted the full reading.
After asking what it entailed, she
broke out a beat-to-shit deck of
tarot cards. I remarked on them
and she told me they were a gift
from her aunt,another mystic.
She dealt my hand and all sorts
of weird shit popped up. I thought
I’d have a better chance inside at
one of the casinos, but what did I
know? I’m the one sitting here.
She told me things I didn’t want or
care to hear. She drudged up
old memories, feelings. Images.
And then I could swear I smelled
the smells of ten years earlier.
I panicked. This was a mistake.
The full reading, I mean.
And then she turned her cards over
and asked me for my fifty dollars.

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CARVER POEM SATURDAY 6/23

The genius that is American writer, Raymond Carver...

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Enjoy this Saturday's poem ... It seems to be about a seemingly quiet morning outside on Raymond Carver's deck -- description of what seems like a typical, crisp morning in Carver Country. Peruse the poem and take from it what you will. Minimalism at its best. Enjoy, as always...

THE COBWEB

A few minutes ago, I stepped onto the deck
of the house. From there I could see and hear the water,
and everything that's happened to me all these years.
It was hot and still. The tide was out.
No birds sang. As I leaned against the railing
a cobweb touched my forehead.
It caught in my hair. No one can blame me that I turned
and went inside. There was no wind. The sea
was dead calm. I hung the cobweb from the lampshade.
Where I watch it shudder now and then when my breath
touches it. A fine thread. Intricate.
Before long, before anyone realizes,
I'll be gone from here.
-- Raymond Carver
____________________________________

Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

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CARVER POEM SATURDAY 6/16

The genius that is American writer, Raymond Carver...

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Enjoy this Saturday's poem ... A description of what seems like a typical Carver afternoon. Or maybe not? In any case, peruse the poem and take from it what you will. Minimalism at its best. Enjoy, as always...

AN AFTERNOON

As he writes, without looking at the sea,
he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.
The tide is going out across the shingle.
But it isn't that. No,
it's because at that moment she chooses
to walk into the room without any clothes on.
Drowsy, not even sure where she is
for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead.
Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed,
head down. Legs sprawled. He sees her
through the doorway. Maybe
she's remembering what happened that morning.
For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him.
And sweetly smiles.

-- Raymond Carver
____________________________________

Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

Read More

CARVER POEM SATURDAY 6/9

The genius that is American writer, Raymond Carver...

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Enjoy this Saturday's poem ... Perhaps one of the poet's most minimal efforts, these six lines read differently each time you read them. So simple, yet powerful. Minimalism at its best. Enjoy, as always...

LATE FRAGMENT

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

-- Raymond Carver
____________________________________

Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

Read More

CARVER POEM SATURDAY 6/2

The genius that is American writer, Raymond Carver...

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Enjoy this Saturday's poem ... I think Carver sums up everyone's fear in roughly 20 lines or so. Again, minimalism at its best. Enjoy, as always...

FEAR

Fear of seeing a police car pull into the drive.
Fear of falling asleep at night.
Fear of not falling asleep.
Fear of the past rising up.
Fear of the present taking flight.
Fear of the telephone that rings in the dead of night.
Fear of electrical storms.
Fear of the cleaning woman who has a spot on her cheek!
Fear of dogs I've been told won't bite.
Fear of anxiety!
Fear of having to identify the body of a dead friend.
Fear of running out of money.
Fear of having too much, though people will not believe this.
Fear of psychological profiles.
Fear of being late and fear of arriving before anyone else.
Fear of my children's handwriting on envelopes.
Fear they'll die before I do, and I'll feel guilty.
Fear of having to live with my mother in her old age, and mine.
Fear of confusion.
Fear this day will end on an unhappy note.
Fear of waking up to find you gone.
Fear of not loving and fear of not loving enough.
Fear that what I love will prove lethal to those I love.
Fear of death.
Fear of living too long.
Fear of death.

I've said that.
-- Raymond Carver
____________________________________

Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

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CARVER POEM SATURDAY 5/26

The genius that is American writer, Raymond Carver...

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Enjoy this Saturday's poem ... It's filled with an odd sense of relief. One that I'm not sure I understand. But there's certainly an uneasiness after reading it -- especially since my dog means the world to me.

Your Dog Dies
it gets run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the road
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your daughter
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your daughter,
about the dog getting run over by a van
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
both syllables,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue writing.
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.
-- Raymond Carver
____________________________________

Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

Read More

SKID ROW'S POET - TO THE WHORE WHO STOLE HIS POEMS

It's said that Charles Bukowski got more 'tang than a WWII sailor on a weekend pass.

Chicks dug him for his Bukowski-ness. Whatever that means.

Early in his life it's said many girls found him depraved-looking. Truth be told, he was a weird-lookin' dude. But also, he was one of those dudes that grew into his looks.

Call it the upside of being a dude. Yeah, we may drop dead first, but if we're lucky we age like fine wine. Or in Bukowski's case, really fuckin' good Kentucky moonshine.

He was definetly a better-looking older man. He wasn't Tyrone Power or anything but he had character. Essence. So chicks, groupies, came in droves.

And when all else failed, they were mere drinking buddies.

So check out this quirky, if not desperate-sounding poem Bukowski wrote to some dame who lifted his papers. Poetry, in fact.

It's funny, sad and true all at once. But try not to chuckle... You're reading primal creative frustration. The dude was passionate about his art in an age before floppies and flash drives.

To The Whore Who Took My Poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be money and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.
-- Charles Bukowski

Now check out this awesome clip from the acclaimed Bukowksi documentary "Born into This"

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CARVER POEM SATURDAY 5/19

The genius that is American writer, Raymond Carver...

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Enjoy this Saturday's poem ... It's filled with a staggering sense of dread. Let's hope none of us have to go through something like this.

What The Doctor Said

He said it doesn't look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong

-- Raymond Carver
____________________________________

Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

Read More

BUKOWSKI - SKID ROW'S POET No. 2

In most of my circles, I get the impression from most of my uppity buddies that the works of writer Charles Bukowski are grossly undervalued. I'll hear something like, "Bukowski? Whatever ..." Blow me. You know who you are.

It's a crime. The more and more I discover his often anti-social prose - and believe you-me, there's a ton of it - the more I discover something new and intriguing.

But in this super-quick update, check out this poem called "Nirvana." It's quite different for Bukowski. It seems to be at a slower pace. He's somewhere peaceful, somewhere the young Bukowski perhaps would've liked to have stayed.

In a weird way, it's the ultra-American poem. Truck stop diner; waitresses. The whole bit ...

Enjoy.

Before you check out the poem, though, click HERE to hear an awesome NPR radio show about Bukowski.

"Nirvana"
not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.
- Charles Bukowski

Now check out a nifty short film (by Tyler Martinolich) based on the above poem. Pretty damn cool...

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CARVER POEM SATURDAY

The genius that is American writer, Raymond Carver...

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Enjoy this Saturday's poem ... A real beaut.

Cheers

Vodka chased with coffee. Each morning
I hang the sign on the door:

OUT TO LUNCH

But no one pays attention; my friends
look at the sign and
sometimes leave little notes,
or else they call - Come out and play,
Ray - mond.

Once my son, that bastard,
slipped in and left me a colored egg
and a walking stick.
I think he drank some of my vodka.
And last week my wife dropped by
with a can of beef soup
and a carton of tears.
She drank some of my vodka, too, I think,
then left hurriedly in a strange car
with a man I'd never seen before.
They don't understand; I'm fine,
just fine where I am, for any day now
I shall be, I shall be, I shall be . . .

I intend to take all the time in this world,
consider everything, even miracles,
yet remain on guard, ever
more careful, more watchful,
against those who would sin against me,
against those who would steal vodka,
against those who would do me harm.

-- Raymond Carver
____________________________________

Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

Read More

CARVER POEM SATURDAY

You gotta wonder what goes through a guy's head sometimes.

In Raymond Carver's case, he's living proof that everything - anything - is fodder for art, prose and the like.

Enjoy ...

The Scratch

I woke up with a spot of blood
over my eye. A scratch
halfway across my forehead.
But I'm sleeping alone these days.
Why on earth would a man raise his hand
against himself, even in sleep?
It's this and similar questions
I'm trying to answer this morning.
As I study my face in the window.


-- Raymond Carver

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CARVER POEM SATURDAY

Photograph of My Father in his Twenty-Second Year

October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father's embarrassed young man's face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsbad Beer.

In jeans and denim shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose bluff and hearty for his posterity,
Wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.

But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer.  Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can't hold my liquor either,
and don't even know the places to fish?

-- Raymond Carver

Check out this film trailer based on one of Carver short
stories. It was released Friday:

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RAYMOND CARVER MINIMALISM

Since the Bukowski poem I posted a few days back got a significant amount of visitors, I figured I would post something similar, this time by another American writer, Raymond Carver.

While post upon post can be written about Carver's life and work, let's just say that for all intents and purposes, his simplistic, yet utterly effective prose will send shivers down many a spine. He wasn't only one of the world's finest writers of short fiction, but also one of its most large-hearted and affecting poets.

Like Carver's stories, the more than 300 poems are marked by a keen attention to the physical world. His unflinching talent compressed vast feelings into three or four words and was truly a voice of conversational intimacy. The best aspect of all of his writing, however, was that he knew when to stop at the most precise moment.

Read the controversial poem below and you'll see.

Drinking While Driving

It's August and I have not
Read a book in six months
except something called The Retreat from Moscow
by Caulaincourt
Nevertheless, I am happy
Riding in a car with my brother
and drinking from a pint of Old Crow.
We do not have any place in mind to go,
we are just driving.
If I closed my eyes for a minute
I would be lost, yet
I could gladly lie down and sleep forever
beside this road
My brother nudges me.
Any minute now, something will happen.

-- Raymond Carver

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Poetry Collections
Near Klamath (1968)

Winter Insomnia (1970)

At Night The Salmon Move (1976)

Where Water Comes Together

with Other Water (1985)

Ultramarine (1986)

A New Path To The Waterfall (1989)

Poetry Compilations
In a Marine Light: Selected Poems (1988)

All of Us: The Collected Poems (1996)

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BUKOWSKI - SKID ROW'S POET

In most of my circles, I get the impression from most of my uppity buddies that the works of writer Charles Bukowski are grossly undervalued. I'll hear something like, "Bukowski? Whatever ..." Blow me. You know who you are.

It's a crime. The more and more I discover his often anti-social prose - and believe you-me, there's a ton of it - the more I discover something new and intriguing. In this quick update, check out this poem that explores the notion of a simple evening out. Lord knows, we who love scotch, have been there.

Big Night On The Town

drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.

you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.

- Charles Bukowski

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