Bukowski, you old satyr
when you croaked
was there the great
American novel locked away in your head.
When you pickled yourself
was it for fear that the words
locked away inside
would spew forth
like your lunch
so many nights
as you verged
on alcohol poisoning.
When you read Burroughs
could you picture
the young boys
bent over the back
of the aging sofa.
We have read
the countless eulogies
of the other men
who only regretted
that your words
did not fall from their tongues.
I stood in the City Lights
for hours poring over you
when I had too little
to lure you home.
Now you rest on the shelf
alongside Ferlinghetti and Bly
and someday I shall
catalog the lot of you.
an old writer and his words 