"Fuck Chaucer"
- for Bukowski.
At the old joint
on the corner of
Hollywood and Vine
where the homeless scatter the street
like flies with their shit stained pants
and wrinkled upturned, gleaming teeth
"Spare some change, fella?," he asks
I ignore him and keep walking
lost in thought, my mind rambles
to the moment of the open door
when I caught my woman
in bed with another
fresh faced dancer
burying her tongue deep inside
her nether parts
"The bitch", I thought
oh, how I wanted to yell
and stomp and kick her
cheating ass out
and onto the cold, hard street
But no, like a pauper
I left without a word
went down the stairs
as Sinatra played
on the old transistor radio
"I'm fucking up," I said to myself
lighting up a cigarette
and taking in the cool night air
with each anxious breath
ever closer to the climax
of pathetic hands
on the jarring wheel.
Copyright: 2010, by Raymund Diaz Delizo
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