In The End, Sorting Letters
For Charles Bukowski, 1920-1994
In the end
When Charles
Bukowski got
Leukemia, he
puffed out his last
With a
daughter and wife
Near,
puffing out
Just serene,
says his ex
About his
face, transparent
No smell of
clutch
Burning out,
just the puffing
Words have a
hard time enshrining
Such a thing
that’s regal
As dying
As art lived
foolish and fun-fucked
Forget about
me. Grab a hand
No weaping
He’d say,
sorting letters
Grab a hand,
a close hand, breathe
Squeeze it,
scarred as you are
Yours in
theirs
One reason
for valor
At the races
or match
Is everything
Fits here,
he says
Your full
blown ass cupped
By my
blistered hands
But that’s
the calm
Way of
letting go
Of drink,
lies, life: Austere life
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