You were a man with a
beer belly and tobacco
stains on his shirt,
watching suicides happen from his window.
I would have liked to drink with you.
They call you a misogynist, I believe it.
None of your love poems were
very lovely. Your prostitutes
who you fondly called “whores,”
the woman you allowed to live with you,
Jane Jane Jane, you crushed all of
them with your metaphors.
You were better off alone but
never brave enough to believe it.
Who is? I chase love like you-
foam dripping from my mouth and
hands bound. I meet your followers,
boys with daggers in-between their teeth.
They are always too drunk and not
good at holding their liquor either.
Still, I hold their hands and guide
them through a stumbling conversation.
They show me the bluebirds in their
chests and I show them mine too.
Neither of us know anything about
the pain that brought you to poetry.
You were a man
an outcast king
shouting at the horse races
drooling at women in their mini skirts
but I like you,
Charles, Henry, I like you.
Because beneath your beer gnarled face
and tender blue feathered heart
I see so much of me.
To Bukowski | Lora Mathis
Because people keep asking me if I like Bukowski or not. Yes. I do.