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.

*******************************************************************************

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.

 

In The Jungles of the DR

Lush, green trees keep out the light over the cavernous, craggly curves and dips of the rocks, so smooth like marble and slick with algae, carved out from centuries of waterflow that has grown stronger every year.  Each vine hangs at different levels, some close enough to the bottom pool so that the tourists in their life jackets can reach up with daring fingers.  They don't dare, though; the guide, all lean muscle and tan skin, swoops in and over, water dripping from his limbs, and leaps, arms splaying and chest pumped, finally splashing into the shallow pool in front of them.

Confession: This picture is not exactly of the DR....but it's close

The shoe no longer has laces; it's a Keds, circa 1980-something, one of the rare styles with flair, brightly colored as if spattered with paint.  The stream has not washed out the color.  The water leads up the bend and back around the trees, disappearing.  Anything can disappear in those warm hills even though they are interlaced with light from the high noon sun, when above the temperatures reach three digits.

Love Seat

CHARLIE and KATHY sit on opposite ends of the couch. A phone is ringing, but neither of them budge. CHARLIE slumps down to reach into the pockets of his jeans with both hands. KATHY sits up straighter and begins to flick dust off the arm of the couch. CHARLIE pulls his hands out and wipes them on the cushion, reaching as far as he can towards KATHY while looking at the floor. KATHY glares for a few beats and then pulls up the center cushion and throws it on the floor. CHARLIE pops up from his seat and jumps to sit in the now empty space where the cushion was. KATHY pulls the couch pillow from behind her and puts it between herself and CHARLIE.

Caught

“Do you want to tell me anything about the last assignment you handed in?”

Eyes down at the floor, body quickly following in a slump. Not even a nod. Not even a slight raise or lower in her chest to show a sign of life.

 “Do you want to say anything to me about your assignment?”

 This time, the eyes flutter. Still can't tell the color; the lashes are too long, most likely fake.

"Can you explain to me who Katie Chopping is?”

 Her head snaps up, causing her ponytail to flop to the side, one thick tail all shaking from the stun. Her lips disappear, sucking in through her teeth.

 "Fine. Then maybe you can explain how your paper is an exact replica of the one I found online, the one that misspells the name Kate Chopin."

She turns her face away from me once more, leans her torso to the left, and vomits in one strong whoooosh and splat.

The Apologizer

I've become a different person since yesterday.  Honest.  I know yesterday was only three hours ago, and I'm probably wakin you up, but I hadta get this out.  I couldn't sleep.  My sheets are all twisted around my waist and. . . you know what, hon?  I'm gonna wash these sheets.  Just like you said.  You know, start takin care of things around here.  The ceilin.  I'll paint it first thing tomorrow.  Today.  Today later in a few hours.  Or maybe I should get that job you were, I mean we were, talkin about.  Not to take credit for your idea or nothin but I knew I shoulda had a job way before you eva brought it up.  I mean, no self-respectin man doesn't have a way to earn some cash, but you know, since I am now a way different person, I can share the credit withya.  So here's the deal, swee'pea: Numba one: get a job. Nubma two: paint the ceilin. Numba three: wash the sheets.  I figure I'll wash 'em after I paint so if any of the paint gets on 'em it'll come right out in the machine.  I can feel it already, sweetheart.  Can you?  No, don't answer that.  I know it; you do.

The Contents Of Kim's Purse

(In The Order She Empties It To Find A Pen To Sign An Autograph)

1 tampon, because it always comes out first even if it’s been purposely buried.

2 tissues, ripped and crumpled but not used

1 tube lip gloss, copper tint, CVS—trying something new

1 tube lipstick, pink, Stila

3 quarters

1 cell phone, containing the numbers of (a rough estimate) 984 celebrities, her top five being all relatives, about 800 never used more than once

5 pieces of Trident gum, Original

1 mini-bar sized bottle of Chambourd with a blue satin ribbon around the neck

1 pill box containing four Advil, one green tea supplement, and a red Tic Tac

2 Snickers’ wrappers

1 flashlight keychain, sans keys

2 to-do lists, items crossed off

3 receipts, La Petite Coquette, Hermes, CVS ( lip gloss and the condoms)

5 condoms, lubricated, large, in one long shiny strip

1 powder compact, Chanel

1 set of keys, five in total with a tiny rubber ducky hanging between them

3 jelly pens, pastel green, pastel yellow, pastel lilac running low

1 clicky pen, blue ink

** obviously, instead of going through her garbage, I went through something else that's personal.  Same kind of idea, right?

Why You Shouldn’t Date A Guy Whose Idea Of Romance Is Eating Fish Tacos (When Fish Taco Is Not A Euphemism, And Actually Means A Taco Filled With Battered Fish)

You’ve been dating this thirty-

something guy for almost a year.

You now fight on a daily basis,

and here “fight” means

you screech at him for not working,

not cleaning, not really doing anything

more than aimlessly roaming around the beach,

quoting The Endless Summer to his random buddies,

and smoking up a jungle’s worth of pot,

while he sits stoned, silent, and sometimes

falls asleep before you storm out,

and the only reason you started dating him

in the first place is that you thought

he was one of those Olympic-minded

surfers or beach volleyball players

because he had shaggy blonde hair

and a killer tan,

and he was always around a bonfire,

strumming a guitar,

sitting near either a surfboard or a volleyball.

And only after you moved him into

your beach house when all he had to move

was a knapsack of boardshorts and ripped tees

with no surfboard or volleyball

did you find out

that he was always on the beach,

not because he loved the beach life,

but because he was homeless,

and the only surfing he did was

the couch and channel kind,

and he was always around the bonfire

so he could “borrow” a guitar

to impress the girls by strumming

one of only three chords he knows,

and also so he could steal marshmallows

and beer, and, of course, fish tacos,

and he would eat them, sand or none,

and whenever you complain about sand

in your own fish taco,

he reminds you that it’s only natural,

and to be able to take the beach inside

is a beautiful thing,

which at first sounded deep and profound,

but now sounds completely ridiculous

as does everything that was once cute,

like how he seems to be in a stoned army

of one, beginning and ending

everything that comes out of his mouth

with the same words

but instead of “ma’am, yes, ma’am”

and “sir, yes, sir,”

he starts everything he says with

Dude

and ends everything he says with

Man.

Like:

After boning in the bathroom

at the beach club he likes to

sneak into, he says,

Dude, I could really go for some

waffles, man.

Like:

After a quickie near the bonfire

on a stolen towel that he swears

was a gift, he says,

Dude? I would love

a bag of barbeque chips, man.

Then you gradually notice

that most of your conversations

revolve around food,

not the elite-Zagat-Guide-type,

but the snack-machine-munchie-type

because when he’s not smoking

or strumming a stolen guitar,

he’s eating.

So one night before going to the bonfire,

you’re eating dinner at your beach house

and it’s the one day of the month that he cooks,

so, of course, you’re eating fish tacos.

And as you bite into your greasy treat,

you hear crunching, you feel grit,

and you spit out the sandy fish taco

right into his plate.

He reacts with

Dude? Since when do you spit?

I thought you were a swallower, man!

And as he laughs at his own joke,

you start screeching about how

you don’t understand how he could

get sand in the fish tacos

when you’re both sitting inside

away from the sand,

but because you’re so frustrated,

you start crying and screaming

all at once,

and as soon as the sobbing starts,

your saliva and snot run all together,

all over your face,

and while you think you’re making

a very valid argument,

it comes out more like,

AIIAIYYIIIIYAIAAIIIIIIIBAHBAHBAH,

causing him to put his hands

over his ears, squint,

and shake his head,

which only makes you angrier,

causing you to jump out of your chair

and throw the fish tacos into his lap,

which causes him,

finally!

after almost a year!

to react with more than falling asleep.

He jumps up from his chair,

knocking it into the fish tank

that he insisted you buy for him

and you did because

you thought it would teach him responsibility

but all it did was contribute to

fish cannibalism

because he never fed the fish

and they all started eating each other—

thousands of dollars of exotic fish

all turned on each other until

there was only one left,

and it’s a miracle how he’s now surviving.

So with the chair smacked against

the aquarium, the fish tacos falling

from crotch to the floor,

the fish-taco-connoisseur points directly at you:

Dude! Do NOT. Harsh. My. Mellow. Maaaaaaan!

And before you can scream even more

about how dare he accuse you of

harshing any kind of mellow—

which again would come out something like

OOUOUOUOUOUFFUUFUFFFFF

through the snoliva all over your face—

the hairline crack in the fish tank

gives way

and gallons of water

explode across the floor,

the last starving fish standing,

the one he named Bodhi

after Patrick Swayze’s character

in Point Break,

slides across the floor

and under the door,

onto the porch and out on the sand,

and the wannabe-

surfer-guitar-volleyball-player

who for almost a year

you’ve called your boyfriend

flings himself across the floor,

the most effort you’ve ever seen him

put into anything he’s ever done,

yells at the top of his lungs,

Dude! Don’t go, man!

and then can’t stop himself

and slams his head into the door,

knocking himself unconscious.

You immediately stop crying,

wedge him out the door,

sit back down,

and finish your sandy fish taco,

because you realize,

to bring the beach inside of you

is far better than

putting up with a guy

who will never yell after you

with the same passion

he uses to yell after

a fish he named after a surfer

who doesn’t even really exist.