After Hank Bukowski died,
they published books of his leftovers live.
Yesterday, I read one
while waiting for some surgery, Hon.
It’s mainly conversational stuff
without the tired conventional guff:
the world may all be going to hell,
but Bukowski bluffs his way pretty well.
Hank claims he’s tougher than fingernails
and fights propel his poetry sales
just drink, and fight, and write in the gutter
and somehow you’ll get bread and butter.
Booze as a primer worked for him:
he pumped out profusion on a whim;
I’d rather write my life stone sober,
happy each day, ’til everything’s over.