Gord's Café

Poems For Sale : For Charles ( Hank ) Bukowski

Bukowski :Poems For Sale

by Gordon Coombes



This poem has gone through a number of versions. This version hopefully works best. The poem is in part a result of several dreams & attempts to capture this dream like quality & feelings of being observing the world as an outsider. It was originally entitled 'In Search Of Charles Bukowski" as a homage to him but it took on a life of its own. Sometimes we are taken in directions we did not expect.

The Cafe Apollinaire is mentioned in this poem. The Cafe Apollinaire is the title of a group of poems which I will be presenting here at a later date. It eventually took on epic proportions but more of this at another time.



Poems for Sale



I search these crowded

glittering neon-dripping streets

where everything is for sale

whores pimps drug-pushers

lawyers & politicians

sell you artful lies

seducing you for your money

your vote of confidence

stroking your ego

giving you a soothing massage

for your enfeebled mind & emaciated soul

all part of the art of seduction

handing you a lie

a bit of New Age bullshit

t.v. & barroom clichés

served up dishes of deep-fried insights

profound fortune-cookie wisdom-



newly arrived slumming pseudo-Bohemians

haven't a clue young men & women

trying to get close to the ground

it's too far down & it can't be done

with a safety net

the middle-aged former accountant explains

how he can live on a dollar a day

though it helps to have a fat bank account

to fall back on just in case

this soul crushing life of hunger & want

for him it's just an experiment

let him try to do it for real-



all those young kids hiding out

in some abandoned building

in the dead of winter

not getting any wiser

just thinner & desperate

believing in nothing at all-

old men in long grey beards

wearing six layers of coats & sweaters

begging to buy a cup of coffee

sitting on stone walls

reading a paper-back

smoking discarded cigarette butts

the sad-eyed woman

saying she's looking for the right man

always finds a guy who steals

what little she has

brags how easy she was

what a loser she is

while the misanthropic writer

claiming he hates everyone

turns sentimental

in the presence of a beautiful woman

acting like everyone's friend

for fear of making a scene

so many sell themselves

for just a few pieces of silver

setting up their wares in the temple courtyards

where I join them to sell

these sharp-twisted-barbs of words

needing food more than virtue-



standing by my stall on the sidewalk

selling my wares

outside the Public Gardens

on a sunny afternoon

'Poems For Sale ' the poster explains

a few verses for a couple of bucks

til someone stops

"Ah poetry, I like poetry

& you are a poet."

"Well... I like to think I am'

several more people gather

pointing their fingers at me

forming a Greek Chorus

raising their voices

accusing calling out

labeling my crime

"You've got me " I answer

"I am a poet in the living flesh

dying by the hour."

they pick up pieces of paper

rip them up throwing them into the air

like snow-flakes falling

a ticker-tape parade

I shake my head complaining

of my lack of sales to the Tarot card reader

all dressed in black

to compliment her long black hair

these other poor souls selling their wares

their labours of love their inspiration

the photographer in the black beret

photos of dead cars & groups of scarecrows

dancing round a bonfire

works of art in black & white

the sketch artist with long red hair

drawing people as they would like to be

the big black & grey bearded stone carver

who's always ready for a fight

the woman in a long flowered skirt

who sells little wire animals

they crowd in on me

trying to comfort me

I take my leave-



someone shouts after me

turning around I recognize a fellow-traveller

a writer waiting for a break

working in a laundromat folding clothes

sorting change

washing dishes in some restaurant

peddling stuff on the phone

stacking books at a library

the reward for four or five years

at some college

we head to Café Apollinaire

where after a couple of beers

the world will seem a friendlier place -