Jan. 6, 2003: i am dead but i know the dead are not like this (Charles Bukowski)

Dear Readers,

Welcome back to those of you who had decent time off for the holidays–my
apologies for the two-week absence for those who didn’t. And
congratulations to member Chris Railey for getting a byline in the recent
WEEKLY DIG (a local paper for those outside the Hub). Well, my new year’s
resolution was to be more drunk, crass, scatalogical, and misanthropic, so
I’m going to start us off on the right foot and print some Charles
Bukowski. Happy new week,


i am dead but i know the dead are not like this

the dead can sleep
they don’t get up and rage
they don’t have a wife.

her white face
like a flower in a closed
window lifts up and
looks at me.

the curtain smokes a cigarette
and a moth dies in a
freeway crash
as I examine the shadows of my

an owl, the size of a baby clock
rings for me, COME ON COME ON
it says as Jerusalem is hustled
down crotch-stained halls.

the 5 a.m. grass is nasal now
in hums of battleships and valleys
in the raped light that brings on
the fascist birds.

I put out the lamp and get in bed
beside her, she thinks I’m there
mumbles a rosy gratitude
as I stretch my legs
to coffin length
get in and swim away
from frogs and fortune.



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