YOUR DOG DIES
run over by a van.
you find it at the side of the
and bury it.
you feel bad about it.
you feel bad personally,
but you feel bad for your
because it was her pet,
and she loved it so.
she used to croon to it
and let it sleep in her bed.
you write a poem about it.
you call it a poem for your
about the dog getting run over by a
and how you looked after it,
took it out into the woods
and buried it deep, deep,
and that poem turns out so good
you're almost glad the little dog
was run over, or else you'd never
have written that good poem.
then you sit down to write
a poem about writing a poem
about the death of that dog,
but while you're writing you
hear a woman scream
your name, your first name,
and your heart stops.
after a minute, you continue
she screams again.
you wonder how long this can go on.
Considered a sexist neanderathal by some,
idolized by many more, Buk's
is a no-bullshit approach to verse. Tough
talk, casual sex, classical
music, alcohol, horseraces, and cigarettes
are the props which adorn
his celebrations of the seamier side of
life, a caustic wit and cutting
tongue are the weapons in his war on
hypocrites. Whatever your
politics, there's no denying that this is
compelling poetry, perhaps
because it confronts its author's
admitted wretchedness stripped
of the usual trappings of polite language,
fake graces, and Poetry with
a capital P. Don't bother trying to find him
at your local public
library--either they consider him
pornographic or somebody has already
stolen all the copies.
novels by charles bukowski ]
- Fires: Essays,
As spare as they are, most of Carver's
short stories strike me as
a bit long-winded. Not so his
poetry, which treat his usual
poverty, and rocky
relationships--with greater wit and
vigor than his prose.
The essays will be of interest
to would-be writers and Carver
biographers, but what makes this book
outstanding is the 60 pages of
poetry which comprise its heart.
- A New Path to the
Waterfall: Last Poems
Assembled during the final days of
Carver's battle with cancer at the
age of 51, there's not an ounce of fat
on this book. The poems are
urgent and moving, bold as poetry
can be only when there is
nothing left to lose and no time left in
which to lose it. Carver also
let go of ego, including versified
snippets of Chekhov as
well as entire poems and
translations from Jaroslav Seifert
and Czeslaw Milosz.
So many grown-ups in their
sophistication and death of idealism
reading the Beats as an adolescent
exercise, nice for its time but out
of step with the plodding realities of
romanceless existence to which
they are resigned. But it's hard to pick
up an Orlovsky or
Corso or Kerouac and
not be inspired oneself to scribe
the details of the instant before it
slips into the distance, so if
you're looking for some portable
inspiration unencumbered by "messages"
or a political agenda, Gasoline
is a nifty pocket
edition perfect for carrying around and
grazing at bus stops and post
office box, complete with a couple of
blank pages at the back whereon
to tell your own story, lid on the top
of your head loosened by a
deft turn of phrase and vision of
obviously miraculous which you might
not otherwise have noticed.
Eric Drooker's extraordinary
illustrated by Eric
In the tradition of William
drawings complement rather than
describe the poems. Chosen by
the selections reflect the
painter's political activism,
"Sunflower Sutra," and "On
Neal's Ashes" all are here, as
lesser-known poems such as "When
the Light Appears," which is
on the Cornershop album When I Was
Born for the 7th Time.
and Other Poems
Perhaps the most famous poem of
the 20th century, Howl
was inspired by fellow San
Shalt Not Kill," a
lament for poets such as Dylan
Thomas and Hart Crane
who were driven to
self-destruction by the
vulgarity of the first half of
century; these are the "best
minds of my generation destroyed
madness" of Howl's
much-quoted opening line. They
seen anything yet.
Ginsberg went crazy, too, but
rather than having his mind
found an outlet in expansive
verse which he considered sheet
breathing, through which the
reader assumes the spirit (from
spiritus, for breath) of the
poet when the poem is read
aloud. At least
that's how he described it when
I took his Literature of the
class at Brooklyn College in
This is the original little
square City Lights edition which
the pockets of beatniks and
hippies all through the '50s and
complete with introduction by
Ginsberg's mentor and fellow Paterson
Read it for
yourself and decide whether or
not Moloch "...whose mind is
machinery! Moloch whose blood is
running money! Moloch whose
are ten armies! Moloch whose
breast is a cannibal
whose ear is a smoking tomb..."
still walks among us.
Clean Asshole Poems
& Smiling Vegetable Songs
Funny poems from Allen Ginsberg's
Like old Ezra Pound, Orlovsky
eschewed proper spelling in
deference to word essence. Soul is
connection between mouth and
asshole, empty without both, all parts of
meat vehicle and cosmic
connections celebrated here. Orlovsky's
anatomical candor resonates
with soapy wiping station in Kerouac's Dharma Bums (no pun?)
and Burroughs' famous line
from Naked Lunch: Gentle
Reader, we glimpse god through
our assholes in the flashbulb of orgasm.
This is a sweet little
pocket-sized book, out of print, admired by
assigned by Allen Ginsberg
in his Beat Lit class at Brooklyn College.
Let it tickle you.
CAT HAIKU (p. 70):
Cat throughing up in all the rooms
Is that my heaven to
clean up vomit
well! here I am
in the city tickling floors
[ read Good
Fuck with Denise from Clean
Cow!: The Selected Verse of Phil Rizzuto
Phil "The Scooter" Rizzuto was shortstop
during 1950's Yankees dynasty,
later became "Voice of Yankees" on WPIX
local NYC radio and TV
stations. His was the fatherliness I never
had in the home. This book
is broadcast transcripts broken into
linebreaks making true American
...You know, it might,
It might sound corny.
But we have the most beautiful full moon
And the crowd,
Enjoying whatever is going on right now.
They say it might sound corny,
But to me it's some kind of a,
Like an omen.
Both the moon and Thurman Munson,
Both ascending up into heaven.
I just can't get it out of my mind.
I just saw that full moon,
And it just reminded me of Thurman.
And that's it.
||August 6, 1979
Baltimore at New York
Ron Guidry pitching to Lee May
Fifth inning, bases empty, no
Orioles lead 1-0