My Literary Fly

115 degrees,
not even a turkey would be happy in this
but it beats burning at the stake,
and like my uncle once said
(when I asked him how things were going)
he said, well, I had breakfast, I had lunch and
I think I’m going to have
dinner;
well, that’s us Bukowskies,
we don’t ask much and
we don’t get much,
except I got an awful good-looking girlfriend
who seems to accept my madness
but it’s still
115 degrees
and I’ve got an air-cooler
a foot from my head
and I’m not delivering the
mail, and
Robert Creeley doesn’t like my poetry
but that’s all right,
it’s 115 degrees outside and the boys are playing
with their bicycles
and diving into the wading pools
and waiting to grow up.

for me,
it’s too hot to fuck
too hot to paint
too hot to complain,
those horses across the street don’t even
brush off the flies,
the flies are too tired and too hot to bite
115 degrees
if we’re going to overthrow the world
maybe we can get it down to
85 degrees
and Robert Creeley might like my stuff,
right now I’m not even writing poetry
I’m pulsating and lazy and inefficient,
there’s a fly on the roller of the typer
and he rides back and forth, back and forth,
my literary fly,
you son of a bitch, get busy,
seek ye out one Robert Creeley and bite ye
upon his ass,
I don’t understand anything
except it’s hot, that’s what it is,
you son of a bitch, get busy,
seek ye out one Robert Creeley and bite ye
upon his ass,
I don’t understand anything
except it’s hot, that’s what it is,
hot, it’s hot today, that’s what it is, it’s hot today,
that guy from Canada I drank wine with all night 3 weeks ago,
he’s probably rolling in the snow
with the Eskimo whores and writing all kinds of
immortal stuff, it’s just too hot:
let him.