The goal of my assignment is to imitate Charles Bukowski. I admit that I am not a fan of all of his work, but the works that I enjoy are some of my favorite poems. One aspect that I am trying hard to imitate is his ability to say so much without being wordy. I do have plans for some edits that I am going to make, such as taking out unnecessary words. I also realize that I am about a hundred words off of the word limit, and that will be fixed in my final draft (another poem may need to be added).
Bukowski:
I
met a genius on the train
today
about
6 years old,
he
sat beside me
and
as the train
ran
down along the coast
we
came to the ocean
and
then he looked at me
and
said,
it's
not pretty.
it
was the first time I'd
realized
that.
the
house next door makes me
sad.
both
man and wife rise early and
go
to work.
they
arrive home in early evening.
they
have a young boy and a girl.
by
9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are
out.
the
next morning both man and
wife
rise early again and go to
work.
they
return in early evening.
By
9 p.m. all the lights are
out.
the
house next door makes me
sad.
the
people are nice people, I
like
them.
but
I feel them drowning.
and
I can't save them.
they
are surviving.
they
are not
homeless.
but
the price is
terrible.
sometimes
during the day
I
will look at the house
and
the house will look at
me
and
the house will
weep,
yes, it does, I
feel
it.
during
my worst times
on
the park benches
in
the jails
or
living with
whores
I
always had this certain
contentment-
I
wouldn't call it
happiness-
it
was more of an inner
balance
that
settled for
whatever
was occuring
and
it helped in the
factories
and
when relationships
went
wrong
with
the
girls.
it
helped
through
the
wars
and the
hangovers
the
backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to
awaken in a cheap room
in
a strange city and
pull
up the shade-
this
was the craziest kind of
contentment
and
to walk across the floor
to
an old dresser with a
cracked
mirror-
see
myself, ugly,
grinning
at it all.
what
matters most is
how
well you
walk
through the
fire.
there's
a bluebird in my heart that
wants
to get out
but
I'm too tough for him,
I
say, stay in there, I'm not going
to
let anybody see
you.
there's
a bluebird in my heart that
wants
to get out
but
I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette
smoke
and
the whores and the bartenders
and
the grocery clerks
never
know that
he's
in
there.
there's
a bluebird in my heart that
wants
to get out
but
I'm too tough for him,
I
say,
stay
down, do you want to mess
me
up?
you
want to screw up the
works?
you
want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's
a bluebird in my heart that
wants
to get out
but
I'm too clever, I only let him out
at
night sometimes
when
everybody's asleep.
I
say, I know that you're there,
so
don't be
sad.
then
I put him back,
but
he's singing a little
in
there, I haven't quite let him
die
and
we sleep together like
that
with
our
secret
pact
and
it's nice enough to
make
a man
weep,
but I don't
weep,
do
you?
call
it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but
it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I
particularly remember the rains of the
depression
era.
there
wasn't any money but there was
plenty
of rain.
it
wouldn't rain for just a night or
a
day,
it
would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and
in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren't
built to carry off taht much
water
and
the rain came down THICK and
MEAN
and
STEADY
and
you HEARD it banging against
the
roofs and into the ground
waterfalls
of it came down
from
roofs
and
there was HAIL
big
ROCKS OF ICE
bombing
exploding
smashing into things
and
the rain
just
wouldn't
STOP
and
all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking
pots
were
placed all about;
they
dripped loudly
and
had to be emptied
again
and
again.
the
rain came up over the street curbings,
across
the lawns, climbed up the steps and
entered
the houses.
there
were mops and bathroom towels,
and
the rain often came up through the
toilets:bubbling,
brown, crazy,whirling,
and
all the old cars stood in the streets,
cars
that had problems starting on a
sunny
day,
and
the jobless men stood
looking
out the windows
at
the old machines dying
like
living things out there.
the
jobless men,
failures
in a failing time
were
imprisoned in their houses with their
wives
and children
and
their
pets.
the
pets refused to go out
and
left their waste in
strange
places.
the
jobless men went mad
confined
with
their
once beautiful wives.
there
were terrible arguments
as
notices of foreclosure
fell
into the mailbox.
rain
and hail, cans of beans,
bread
without butter;fried
eggs,
boiled eggs, poached
eggs;
peanut butter
sandwiches,
and an invisible
chicken
in every pot.
my
father, never a good man
at
best, beat my mother
when
it rained
as
I threw myself
between
them,
the
legs, the knees, the
screams
until
they
seperated.
"I'll
kill you," I screamed
at
him. "You hit her again
and
I'll kill you!"
"Get
that son-of-a-bitching
kid
out of here!"
"no,
Henry, you stay with
your
mother!"
all
the households were under
seige
but I believe that ours
held
more terror than the
average.
and
at night
as
we attempted to sleep
the
rains still came down
and
it was in bed
in
the dark
watching
the moon against
the
scarred window
so
bravely
holding
out
most
of the rain,
I
thought of Noah and the
Ark
and
I thought, it has come
again.
we
all thought
that.
and
then, at once, it would
stop.
and
it always seemed to
stop
around
5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful
then,
but
not an exact silence
because
things continued to
drip
drip
drip
and
there was no smog then
and
by 8 a.m.
there
was a
blazing
yellow sunlight,
Van
Gogh yellow-
crazy,
blinding!
and
then
the
roof drains
relieved
of the rush of
water
began
to expand in the warmth:
PANG!PANG!PANG!
and
everybody got up and looked outside
and
there were all the lawns
still
soaked
greener
than green will ever
be
and
there were birds
on
the lawn
CHIRPING
like mad,
they
hadn't eaten decently
for
7 days and 7 nights
and
they were weary of
berries
and
they
waited as the worms
rose
to the top,
half
drowned worms.
the
birds plucked them
up
and
gobbled them
down;there
were
blackbirds
and sparrows.
the
blackbirds tried to
drive
the sparrows off
but
the sparrows,
maddened
with hunger,
smaller
and quicker,
got
their
due.
the
men stood on their porches
smoking
cigarettes,
now
knowing
they'd
have to go out
there
to
look for that job
that
probably wasn't
there,
to start that car
that
probably wouldn't
start.
and
the once beautiful
wives
stood
in their bathrooms
combing
their hair,
applying
makeup,
trying
to put their world back
together
again,
trying
to forget that
awful
sadness that
gripped
them,
wondering
what they could
fix
for
breakfast.
and
on the radio
we
were told that
school
was now
open.
and
soon
there
I was
on
the way to school,
massive
puddles in the
street,
the
sun like a new
world,
my
parents back in that
house,
I
arrived at my classroom
on
time.
Mrs.
Sorenson greeted us
with,
"we won't have our
usual
recess, the grounds
are
too wet."
"AW!"
most of the boys
went.
"but
we are going to do
something
special at
recess,"
she went on,
"and
it will be
fun!"
well,
we all wondered
what
that would
be
and
the two hour wait
seemed
a long time
as
Mrs.Sorenson
went
about
teaching
her
lessons.
I
looked at the little
girls,
they looked so
pretty
and clean and
alert,
they
sat still and
straight
and
their hair was
beautiful
in
the California
sunshine.
the
the recess bells rang
and
we all waited for the
fun.
then
Mrs. Sorenson told us:
"now,
what we are going to
do
is we are going to tell
each
other what we did
during
the rainstorm!
we'll
begin in the front row
and
go right around!
now,
Michael, you're first!. . ."
well,
we all began to tell
our
stories, Michael began
and
it went on and on,
and
soon we realized that
we
were all lying, not
exactly
lying but mostly
lying
and some of the boys
began
to snicker and some
of
the girls began to give
them
dirty looks and
Mrs.Sorenson
said,
"all
right! I demand a
modicum
of silence
here!
I
am interested in what
you
did
during
the rainstorm
even
if you
aren't!"
so
we had to tell our
stories
and they were
stories.
one
girl said that
when
the rainbow first
came
she
saw God's face
at
the end of it.
only
she didn't say which end.
one
boy said he stuck
his
fishing pole
out
the window
and
caught a little
fish
and
fed it to his
cat.
almost
everybody told
a
lie.
the
truth was just
too
awful and
embarassing
to tell.
then
the bell rang
and
recess was
over.
"thank
you," said Mrs.
Sorenson,
"that was very
nice.
and
tomorrow the grounds
will
be dry
and
we will put them
to
use
again."
most
of the boys
cheered
and
the little girls
sat
very straight and
still,
looking
so pretty and
clean
and
alert,
their
hair beautiful in a sunshine that
the
world might never see
again.
and
Michael Hartsfield's:
I Saw A Man
I saw a man on
the sidewalk
earlier
around the
corner,
he stood against
the wall
and as the
crowds passed
he looked to the
ground
and never made
eye contact
but his eyes
said,
I am sorry.
he is the
inconvenience we
deal
with.
walls
the idea of
walls makes us
comfortable.
both insider and
foreigner can be and
feel safe.
insiders can
sleep with peace of mind.
foreigners keep
receiving aid and missionaries.
in one year the
walls on the boarder
should have been
built.
the many years
to come both insider and
foreigner will
work together and build
their walls.
they will be
content.
until the walls
are
up.
the idea of
walls make us
comfortable.
the people
building them become
comfortable.
yet foreigners
must leave.
and insiders
must forget.
they are
foreigners.
they are not
insiders.
yet the culture
can
stay.
once in the year
we will
celebrate the foreigners
and the memories
will come back to
us
and the crowds
will
drink, because
it is
Cinco de Mayo.
Who really
killed Harambe?
throughout my hours
spent
on the social
media
on the Facebook
or the few on
MySpace
I always feel a
little
paranoid-
scared of my
image-
offended by the
opinion of
others
that scream in
unison
for whatever is
popular
but it comforts
those in
Syria
and sends
prayers
never spoken
to the
French.
it is
blind to the
reasoning and
the
questions.
the possible
solutions
the
outcomes.
to do what one
says
is a foreign
idea and
impossible to
the millennials-
this is the
purpose of
social media.
and to do, not
tweet
will be the test
for a
blind
generation-
seeing only
others, sitting,
typing all their
problems.
because what
really matters is
who it was
that killed
Harambe?
Vates
there’s a poet
on the street that
needs us to
listen
but we are busy
doing nothing,
and scream, I
have no money,
I’m not
interested in your
words.
there’s a poet
on the street that
needs us to
listen
but we walk
quickly and say
nothing
and the pain and
the hurt
and the loneliness
stays put
where
it is.
there’s a poet
in the street that
needs us to
listen.
but we are busy
doing nothing,
and scream,
go away, do you
not know that we
are busy?
why are you
disturbing the
peace?
why don’t you go
get a job in
business?
there’s a poet
in the street that
needs us to
listen
but we don’t
understand, we only know that
he cries loudly
at our busiest.
we scream, we
want you gone,
so please go
away.
then he cries
louder,
but we’ve heard
more
than enough, we
let him continue to
cry
but one day his
voice
leaves
without
any notice
and we begin to
cry
about a poet’s
death, but do we
truly know what
was lost?
Dance Party in a
Baptist Church
watch us dance
the night away
but we will
regret it in the morning.
We do not think
of what the elders
will say.
much less what
will be said on the day
of judgment.
we dance like Christ
is near and then
sleep
and rise early
to hear what our pastor
has to say about
the sins we have
committed
and the JUDGMENT
we will receive and
the CONDEMNATION
and
the FIRE
and many will
TALK about the grace
of Jesus and how
the Jews
crucified him in
the worst of ways
and there will
be JUDGMENT
CONDEMNATION AND
FIRE
cast
onto the sinners
of this world
and the sin
will forever
cease
and all the
nations will
weep,
because all
will be
CONDEMNED;
only the elite
receive
and deserve
grace and
mercy.
the sermon comes
to an end and
the congregation
rises to receive mercy and
forgiveness.
though we don’t
mean it.
we dance the
next day in the
sanctuary:
twirling, flailing, jumping, and skipping
and it must be
said that we are not very good,
we dance like
middle school kids
at their first
homecoming,
and the blame
goes to the pastor
because he would
not
let us learn how
to be in the
world
but not of it.
the party goes
on,
the horrific
dancing continues
but we can’t
help but wish we were
Pentecostal or
Methodist
or even
Charismatic.
the Charismatic
churches dance
even in the
sanctuary
during service.
the joy they
seem to have
while worshiping
their God of love.
their
explanation for this forbidden action
is that David
danced
in worship for
the Lord.
flailing and
jumping, like a Baptist,
worship without
shame, somewhat
forbidden;
shameless joyful
worship, and
even done
while wearing
nothing.
King David, a
man after God’s
own heart,
danced naked
in the streets
as his wife
CONDEMNED him,
his dancing, his
worship, his
commitment
to his
God.
“What are you
doing,” she yelled
to him. “You are
sinning against the Lord
and the Church!”
of course she
did not actually say this
but she thought
it.
She hated his
worship.
the Baptist are
just like Michal.
loving David but
we hate what he
does because it
isn’t
Baptist.
and during our
dance
or praises to
our Lord
the deacons walk
in
and it was as if
JUDGMENT
ambushed the
sanctuary,
the stained
glass
was sucked
of its
vibrant color,
the church lost
its grace and
mercy
and even lost
its
hope.
we thought all
was
lost.
and we were taken,
immediately, to the
pastor.
and he had to be
waken up from his
sleep
because 2 a.m.,
the ungodly
hour,
was no time for
a Holy Man
to be awake.
Bang
Bang
Bang
went the knocks
of the deacons
and it continued
until 3 a.m.
because 2 a.m.
is a time of
ungodliness.
and when
the pastor came
to the door
he greeted us
with JUDGMENT:
BANG! BANG!
BANG!
and all was gone
and appeared again
but we were all
in a court
shocked
by the blinding
light that was
God
and there he sat
with
a gavel in hand
and the pastor
sat in a seat of
JUDGMENT
and
CONDEMNTATION
and
FIRE.
The pastor
attempted to explain his case
about how he was
a Holy Man.
How he was never
up during
the ungodly
hours
and how he
respected the church,
and never danced
in it.
but God
questioned his
worship.
The pastor
explains how he
sang at an
approved
volume and never
moved his
hips.
but God
questions his
commitment.
the pastor then
explains
the countless
hours he spent
following the
rules
and CONDEMING
those who didn’t
.
how he brought
JUDGMENT
on those who
didn’t
and warned them
of the
FIRE to come.
He explains how
he traveled
the world
bringing heathens
to Christ!
how he CONDEMNED
the dancing
tribes in Africa.
JUDGED the
Catholic
immigrant.
Brought FIRE to
the funerals
of the sinful!
God then
questions his
GRACE
MERCY
and
LOVE.
The pastor then
explains his
love.
“I have a love
that is tough and
CONDEMING.
I have a love
that is harsh and
JUDGING.
I have a love
that warns of the
FIRE.
love is CONDEMING
to the needy.
love is JUDGING
to the searching.
love is the
truth of FIRE to the deceived.
love is tough.”
God then calls
to His son and
displays the
scars on his hands.
“This is LOVE.
LOVE is grace.
LOVE is mercy.
you were not to
CONDEMN.
you were not to
JUDGE.
you were not to
bring
FIRE.
It is the job of
the judge to
JUDGE
and you are no
JUDGE
rather the
CONDEMNED
because I did
not know
you.”
God then turns
to us and says what all
want to hear,
“well done good
and faithful servant.”
wells of joy
overflowed,
and almost by
instinct we
danced,
but
we then stopped
in shame.
embarrassed by
the
sin we had
committed.
God looks at us
with sorrow
and grieves over
the
lies the pastor
taught us.
David then
appears in our midst.
gleaming and
beautiful.
he then
instructs us on worship.
“worship is
SHAMLESS.
worship is
COMMITTED.
worship is
NAKED.”
The rest of
eternity will be spent
in SHAMLESS, COMMITTED,
and NAKED WORSHIP.
