one for the gang

the hawks of hell
sit perched about on the radio
the door sills
this desk
there’s one on the ice bucket
look, Bukowski, you think you’ve
gotten away from us?
we see you driving to the race track
every day
in that $15000 black BMW
with sun roof
playing that cassette by Janis
Joplin…

ah, hello fellows, I say,
welcome back.

they fly to the desk.
come on, Buk, write a poem about
us.

they watch me now as I
type:

you assholes of doom, maybe I can
get you into the New York Quarterly.

they flap their wings:
come on, Buk, do it, you’ve got
pull.

all right, I type, you’ll be on
page 39,
little girls in college with tight
skirts will read about
you,
you’ll be invited to readings,
you’ll be wined and screwed,
you’ll take an air liner to
Paris,
you’ll…

come on, Buk, do it!
they fly about the room.

my black cat sits and watches
them calmly
his eyes are crazier than
anybody’s.