Bukowski

on the anniversary of the birth

of Charles Bukowski

a friend posted

a poem of his

about a bluebird trapped

inside a heart.

I replied

“I love him!”

(meaning

the poet.)

he wrote back

“this I would not have guessed.”

which makes me wonder

why.

I know it started

with just one

poem.

it always does.

I look

in the usual places

and find no evidence.

at the library on Saturday

I check out

all

the Bukowski books

because

I need to know.

I sit on the back deck

and devour the pages

without pause.

there's a torn piece of pink Kleenex

left behind to

mark page

131

a poem called

heart in the cage.

I vow not

to leave my Women for Obama

sticker inside when

I’m finished.

in the end

I cannot find the one poem

that began it

all.

this I know

he writes

like a

man

a little like Hemingway.

about drinking and gambling and 

power

and I would say sex

but he calls it fucking.

and it’s all underlined

with

disappointment and 

hunger and pain.

maybe

that's what I like.

maybe

I want to know

what men really think.

or maybe

I already know

what they think.

and maybe

I just like

that he has the guts

to actually say it

like it is.

my friend is right.

these poems

are nothing like

me

on the outside

but

a little bit

like

us all

on the inside.

most of us have learned

to hide it

but Bukowski

he refused to look away.