and I still don’t vote

18 boxes of crackerjacks left over from
Halloween,
I gave them to the gardeners.

I am the great man of the plantation.
I bring beers to the workers.

they play their transistor radios
to crap music
in the sun,
suck at their beers,
break open boxes of
crackerjacks.

they chew
rotting their mouths and their brains
as I phone my financial advisor at
Fine, McMurray and Fine.

he says, it’s copper, put it into
copper.

I’ll consider, I told him.

I hang up, walk out on the overlooking
porch, watch the men in the 94 degree
heat.

“you’re doing a great job, fellows!”

“do you want us to do the planting too?”
a nice bright-eyed fellow up near the
front
asks.

“no, you fellows do the shit work, I’ll
do the planting, I’ll take the glory.”

several of them laugh.
I give a wave, walk back inside.

then I feel the need to excrete.
I ponder whether to use
the front crapper
the back crapper
or
the upstairs crapper.

I decide on the upstairs crapper, walk
up the marble stairway thinking, it has
taken you sixty years, Chinaski, to
appreciate the American Democratic system
of plunder.

Like this website? Support it.
I want to bring all of Bukowski's poems online and make then freely available. This means hundreds of hours of work to retype over 1,000 of his poems from the original manuscripts. Your donations will help support this work.