Instead of the Griffin Prize* All I Get is the Griffin** or What I Get for Reading Too Much Godd*mned Charles Bukowski - A Poem-in-Cheek
for Karthik gone almost a year now,
'so much for mythology'
Many clips of poets, some known enough,
some not known, at least to me. I live
beneath a rock under a rusted old half-
bridge beneath the only cloud on earth
that doesn't move unless a rare bird,
a big one, flies beneath it. And so I
try them, 'the Winners.' Some I can't
bear to look at. I swear,
THAT'S NOT A POET!
I swiftly move to the others, one by one.
They don't know that they're all being
weighed, I admit it, in unfair balance,
GUILTY AS CHARGED.
But I'm magic.
I scream and curse the worst at them,
even more when they are undeniably very good,
HOW DARE THEY!
The rare bird, large, flies beneath the
only cloud that doesn't move except to
avoid any attachment other than to me.
Sh*ts on my head.
I go make a cup of tea.
Listen to Bach (J.S) , Gould's,
The Goldberg.***
Keep pointing to the radio.
Shaking my head muttering.
Whistling between fragments.
I open the curtain at midnight and wait
for the lights of the big planes to shine
directly in on me. Like that godd*mned
bird, they're in my flight path.
I am nervous.
But they don't fly over me.
Nor do they sh*t on my head.
Still, I wait there till very early in the
morning, till just before sunrise.
'Close call, ' I say.
Then I draw the curtain.
I fall hard into bed covering my
head with a pillow, that gold multi-mirrored
pillowcase a gift from the most beautiful
of lovers (both from India)
just in case.
poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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