of poems and people

never satisfied
the whiners
always primping
looking in mirrors
screaming for attention
always wanting
to re-invent themselves
rise out of the ashes
you know
go phoenix

who let bukowski in

now the bastard won’t leave
he sits at the kitchen table in my mind
like a sous chef swilling the cooking wine
he is cleaning his nails with a fork

you don’t know what love is


that day i torched all the poetry
i was a sick but determined man
i was looking for liberation like
the great bra burners of the 60’s
in pajama bottoms at high noon
i dragged out the olive trash can
gathered up 29 years of poems
every one i could lay hands on
doused them with liquid starter
struck a match and tossed it in


having known desire
having drank of pleasure
and purple pain
i stand in front of the mirror
a ghost stirring inside me
inside my musty mind
a hand and
suddenly a razor
rushing through me
day someday
one never knows

Copyright 2008 by Jeffrey Spahr-Summers.