Bukowski's Two Cents

Replacement Poem

How To Be An Agnostic

                        --based on a passage from Paul Beatty’s Slumberland

Proof that God exists: the Chattanooga choo choo; mai tais with blue umbrellas; chimpanzees; sweatpants on bloated days; solar spots; hatchbacks; men with shaven armpits; the Galapagos; F. Scott Fitzgerald; F. Scott Fitzgerald’s love for Zelda; the Slinky; Mr. Rogers’s sideburns; automatic payment; and Sophia Coppola.

Proof that God doesn’t exist: hyenas; holes in footie pajamas; basic cable; $8 smoothies; people who would pay $8 for a smoothie; lost luggage; “Don’t Speak” on two stations at once; the last two weeks of April; the long slow lonely boring days of paid vacation; and Sophia Coppola.

Proof that God may or may not exist: doorknob shocks from static; jazz hands; the fashion industry; using three words for things that can be said in one; constellations; espresso; paper; PBS; and Talia Shire.

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Original:

Proof that God exists: Hawaiian surf, Welch’s grape juice, koala bears, worn-in Levis, the Northern Lights, the Volvo station wagon, women with braces, the Canadian Rockies, Godard, Nerf football, Shirley Chisolm’s smile, free checking, and Woody Allen.

Proof that God does not exist: flies, Alabama, religion, Chihuahuas, Chihuahua owners, my mother’s cooking, airplane turbulence, LL Cool J, Mondays, how boring heaven must fuckin be, and Woody Allen.

Letter Poem

Dear John

I want to commit suicide
In your claw-footed, white bathtub
To see what red really is, what blood,
My blood, really looks like against
Your ajax-sanitized surfaces.
I want rivulets of blood to seep into
Porcelain pores and stay and stain
In patterns of spurts and splashes.
I want to make your white tub pink,
A pink that lasts after twentyfivethousand bubble baths
A pink that withstands scrub brushes
A pink that matches your water-wrinkled fingertips.
I want those fingertips to trace the stains.
I want those fingertips to wonder why.
I want those fingertips, wrinkles, arm hairs, wrists
To touch and trace, fall into a trance,
Be mesmerized by memory.
I want those fingers to touch a thin, sharp blade
That cuts the stubble clean off morning faces,
That causes red ingrown hairs to form on folds of skin
Along the neck and cheek.
I want that metal blade to be cold every morning.

Air Date

Window seat. Please someone hot sit next to me. Please someone hot sit next to me. Oooh, someone hot is coming. AND HE'S SITTING NEXT TO ME.

"Hey."

"Hey."

He's got a ring on. Good, it's the middle finger. Sweet. He's hot. Who's he texting?

[I'm peering over his shoulder...the screen reads: Holly cow, I almost missed my flight. Getting in late.]

Who is this Holly person? Wait, that's supposed to say "holy." So he can't spell. Neither could my last boyfriend. Spelling is nothing compared to all the other qualities he probably has. Like hotness. And smelling good.

He's using his phone until the last possible moment. Who's he talking to? Yeah, that's right buddy, you'll get a ride and whoever that is should definitely go out without you. You can get a ride with me. It wouldn't be the first time my dad drove home a guy I met when picking me up. Sure, that was almost ten years ago and I'm an adult now, but he'd still do it even though it's weird and you'd find it most likely awkward. Or maybe endearing. Maybe you'll be happy to meet my dad to immediately get his approval to be with me forever.

Say something. Say something to him. Come on, dazzle him.

[I take out a magazine and fling a pack of travel handywipes out of the bag.]

"Ooh, sorry, sorry."

"That's okay. Can you reach?"

"Probably not. Sorry, sorry."

[I crouch down in my seat and practically have my head in his lap as a snag the pack and shove it into my bag.]

"Okay that's the last time I'll invade your space."

"It looks like a big plane but it's really cramped in here."

"Yeah, it's a tight space."

Why aren't we talking anymore? That was a great conversation starter. We're both reading. What's he reading? Why is he reading SkyMall? Say something witty. Ask him if he's planning to by a kitty litter box for 400 dollars. Point out the odd gardening equipment and ask if he thinks people actually buy that stuff. But what if he actually buys that stuff? Okay, too late, he's putting it away.

I'll just read my magazine. Reading the magazine. Read read read. His arm is so touching my arm and I so don't care.

Take off. Time to close my eyes. He's closing his eyes too. We are so in sync.

Okay, we're in the air. Everything is fine. Time to take off my sneakers. Oh. My. God. He's taking his off too. Now he's reading the safety instructions. I'm reading my magazine. We're both shoeless and reading. We are meant for each other.

Drink cart time. Okay, now's my chance. I have to say something and instead of being weird and starting a conversation out of nowhere, I'll start a conversation when we get our drink orders.

He's asking what kind of cookies they have. Maybe he'll share the cookie.

He's not getting a cookie. I was banking on getting a taste.

"Apple juice, please."

[The flight attendant hands over my apple juice, hovering in front of him as I grab it.]

"Sorry I'm in your way again."

Stupid flight attendant! Don't jump in and apologize too. Now you've wrecked the ice breaker and he's talking to you. Cockblocked!

Attempt number two. "I'm gonna leave these pretzels here, so if you want any, you can just grab some." [I open the bag in front of him so he sees I haven't laced them with love potion.]

"Oh, thanks."

"Well, seeing as how you didn't get your cookie and all."

"Yeah."

Okay, so that didn't go as planned. I didn't realize that offering to share a bag of pretzels on a plane was a social faux pas.

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.

Touching me again. I'm not moving. You're warm. In fact, this whole plane is getting warm. I'm totally taking off my sweater and putting my hair up. I know you can see my cleavage now, buddy. Yeah, that's right. Now you wish you said more than "yeah" to my cookie comment.

Or maybe not. Fine, keep reading your book.

Ask him what he's reading. No, don't, it's got a bear on the cover. It must suck. Poor choice in reading material.

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.

Ahhhh, we're descending. Time to put my shoes back on. Oh. My. God. He's putting his shoes back on, too. Why can't he see how we're so perfect together? We are so in sync! We have the same flying habits!

That's right, buddy, look over me to see out the window. I'd move so you could see better if you asked me. Ask me ask me ask me.

Or don't ask me. Fine. I'll get the prettiest view of the unisphere. This is amazing. Citifield. So pretty. So many lights. Ha, you're so missing out.

Ah, home home home. Why am I always so relaxed during landing while I get panicked during take off? Landing is just as dangerousHOLYFUCKINGSHITwe're going in the water!

Dude, hurry up and proclaim your love, dammit! While we still have time! I take it back! I love you!

Oh, ok. We've landed and we're not in the water.

And you're still ignoring me.

I get it. You can't stand to have to leave me after we've shared an armrest. I get it. Armrest love. The aftermath is almost unbearable.

View How To Get Married in a larger map

Two Halves of a Whole

"I'm serious, Jimmy.  Give it to me.  Now."

The slight tremors have become more like quakes.  Not slight.  More like unslight quakes leading to whatever is bigger than an earthquake.

"Nah, man, I won it.  Only thing I've won.  Ever.  I ain't givin' it up.  You give."  Jimmy juts out his chin and holds his hands over it against his chest, creating a cage of possession.

The quakes rock the rocks.  The rocks start to crumble.  It's like being in the ending an Indiana Jones movie, only it's not a movie, though it could very well be the end.

"No way.  I'm closer.  Throw it to me.  This has nothing to do with nostalgia, Jimmy.  If we die, no one's going to care who won and who lost what."

Jimmy pulls his hands away from his chest enough to see his prize.  It glows golden.  He covers it up as the pebbles fall.  The only positive of the falling pebbles?  More light.  The more the rock cracks and breaks, the more light comes through from above.

"I care.  I'll care when I die."

"What do you mean when?"

Actual rock-sized rocks fall.  The brown sludge of centuries melts down through the tunnels.  It is thick.  It smells like ash.

"It's not an if, Roy. It's a when.  We all gotta die."

"Yes, but not all of us have to die right now.  Not if you give me the other half of the

Last Day On The Islands

The sun rises

s  l  o  w  l  y 

over the head of diamond-

shaped mountains,

a volcano put to sleep

against a sky stained

blazing orange to blue.

A final hot cup

filled with Kona coffee.

A final mango smoothie

made to order on the veranda.

A final glance at the surfers,

backs glistening, dripping,

salty and muscled—their boards

jamming through waves

so clear, like glass, like crystal,

like sweet ice before it's shaved

into a cone—one last taste

before the gravity of the mainland

bears down and pulls.