Dylan Hock

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thinking about bukowski
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m
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bitching about stars and sewing circles
poets who don't know what is real
material unused or little more
when he, himself, contributed to the cause for
no longer writing about prostitutes,
concrete, and fuck/shit/dirty holes
his work part of the foundation for an amalgamation
of hip jive talkers too tough to sew, so sewing
another scene out of patches of Hollywood and
west coast cities that thrive on
cockroach sex and junky love. Wino sculpture and
convict philosophy. Shit, what's left
after the ugly and beautiful have been stolen up and
mmmnwrapped in the hotcake of poetry and shoveled down
the dim throat of the poet aficionados groping in the smoke
mmmnas pigs in a blanket, in a greasy spoon open all night
and Sunday morning's best? What's left?
anything? on the right?
anything, that will allow a move forward to
the next question, concerned with form and
living and how one actually gets by
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when all they are is a poet
who happened to use the word stars and mean
the inexplicable dream of life kept bottled up
inside the skin, no more than
a flexible urn in motion,
and breath-
the gust of a moth's wings
mmmnescaping the mouth.
m
m
m
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