the bookcase

my bookcase has change, gotten bigger, and each time I’ve moved
somehow it’s been to a better place
but even with the minor fame I’d like to think that I’ve
continued to write as well, perhaps better, and so the books have
added up, but I’ve never been able to keep each book I’ve written on
the shelves, they vanish.
and they know what to take:   I’ve replaced my first book 3 times
to have it stolen   3 times.
other editions too have vanished, I no longer replace them
figuring I’d only make them available.
the main thing, anyhow, is to write the next book.   and there isn’t
that much traffic goes through here,
I get it to be less and less, just a few by   for drinks, an interview,
a filming,
I tend to think I’ve narrowed it down to a decent
core
we tend to drink together as if
we had an understanding beyond the commonplace
but the commonplace
continues:
when I go   in to piss
they
most of them
filtch…
admiration?
perhaps?
and, you’re right,
I shouldn’t even complain about this
for it has surely
even with all this
worked out far better than I ever thought it
would,
and others too have this problem
with those who enter doorways
like
loss of
silverware, cigarette lighters,
wives.
it’s standard
and we continue
as if it hasn’t
happened.

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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.