…for Buk


it will be said once,
in the afterglow of meaningless sex
and senseless conversation-
when you’ve gone through
your last cigarette,
too tired to use me once more-
once your generous gift
of pearls have lost their luster-
your limbs shivering and twitching,
itching like a trigger finger
that found it’s mark too soon-
you won’t think
we took things too far,
the scratch of your pen
drawing your blood out from the page
as the landlady,
rabid and foaming in her housecoat
barks for the rent.
Darling, look here
when your sketchy memory tries
to draw up my face,
i will have skipped town
like a wiry comet about to meet it’s fate
Hell bent, skin ablaze
flesh sweet and salty with whiskey
too hopped up to know better,
to know what it all meant or
even be afraid-
so think of me,
head aligned with the stars,
so soon to find the earth
for was i not,
everything to you once-
was i not
your whore, your muse?


Author’s NoteA love letter to Charles Bukowski~

i wrote this poem after reading an article about Charles Bukowski’s girlfriend Francis Smith and what life with him became for her during the disintegration of their relationship. The true love of his life & his muse had been Jane Baker…….she died young and Buk was completely traumatized over her death. Every woman that he was with after her was unfortunately held up to her example and seldom passed the test.

Francis had given birth to Buk’s daughter Marina so they always had that attachment that might have been easier to break if they hadn’t had a child together. He was horrible to her, often referring to her as Snaggle tooth and worse yet Shack-Job. He’d call her a whore to her face. He was known for his drinking binges, his outbursts and was  even violent towards her. There’s even one poem by him entitled: “To the Whore that Stole My Poems” which may or may not have been referring to Francis.

That said: I wrote this point from her point of view….. tried to get into her skin for a few moments and say to him.