The Great Drunken Poet

 The Great Drunken Poet

 

 

I'm standing in front 

of the house on Edgewater Terrace, 

high on speed, 

yelling at the ghost of a poet.

watching him vomit in the front yard ivy. 

The chaos is breaking out amongst

the meat puppet muses

in the house I call home--

I'm rushing towards that 

gorgeous poetic image

the whole world is waiting for. 

I walk in the house, 

past John Bennett, 

past my Aunt Linda,

past my Mother, 

past half the worthless 

drunken word shepherds in L.A. 

past the drunken actors,

past the stoned painters, 

past the posers in gauze shirts,

finally past Bukowski himself,

trying to hold court from a blackout.

He lets out a howl when he sees me, 

"Where ya' goin', kid?"

"Up to my room, Hank, where you going, NASA?"

He stares at me for a moment,

trying to determine if my statement is in fun or folly. 

I don't give him a chance, 

I'm off to my room, 

and out on the roof to smoke a joint.

The gray dome of L.A. looms above my head,

I'm in seventeen year old angst,

cursing all poets,

cursing all writers,

cursing all sons and daughters of writers.

I yell at the smog

its blocking my way to the stars,

I yell at the moon 

because it hasn't a face,

I yell at God because 

he left town 

after the earthquake of 1971.

I hear the voices of my Aunt Linda and mother,

laughing at the wit of the great drunken poet,

like shills charming up the great joke--

as the room burns up like a brush fire!

As the room burns up,

I hear the devil beckoning me to suicide--

I hear  the great emptiness of the silver lake--

the roar of all the young souls lost on rooftops.

I smoke another joint,

now I'm beginning to hallucinate,

the voices downstairs are comical now,

the poets are all Saturday morning cartoons,

I walk down to see the show.

I go to the fridge to get a beer.

The great drunken poet greets me,

as my hand reaches for the writing fuel,

He says to me, "Have a Schlitz, kid, 

just don't tell your mother I gave it to you."

I want to say, "Thank you great drunken poet, thank you

for giving me what great poets in training need!" 

But I don't,

I don't say anything, 

I laugh at the great drunken poet's wit,

like everyone else does,

ashamed of all of us.

I go up on the roof to smoke yet another joint,

suddenly, I'm sobbing.

I'm shaking, 

I'm frantically looking around me, 

I'm looking...

I'm looking for the way down from the speed,

I'm looking for the way back to God,

the way back to my lost childhood,

the way to death,

the way through the smog,

the way to my high school graduation,

the way to satisfy this great emptiness,

the way to paradise,

the way to find some courage,

the way to find some f*****g courage! 

Then I'm screaming,

there is no sound in my screams 

my silent scream--

I'm screaming up

seventeen, 

I'm screaming up

youth, 

I'm screaming up

my guts and my blood,

I'm screaming up poets.

Silence.  

Sobs.  

I'm sobbing up the silent screams, 

I'm sobbing up great possibilities,

I'm sobbing up great thoughts

I'm sobbing up demons

I'm sobbing up God

until I am empty. 

I'm looking for the way out, 

I'm looking for the way in, 

I'm looking for just one f*****g answer, 

I'm looking for the way,

far from great drunken poets.  

RKS 2008

Reviews

[cest la vie]

In a word, AMAZING!! I read this through three times, and each time I liked it more and more.
such a witty, sad, hilarious write. Very nice work!!
Lynne