Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Brown Rice And Bukowski

It’s noon
and I have thrown away three poems.
I sat here and read them
and re-read them
and then I threw them away.
I have vacuumed the floors,
eaten brown rice,
and talked with my mother.
Yes,
she is still crazy.
I have even read Bukowski.
I wish he were here.
If he were,
he would sit beside me and tell me
not to be so literary.
He would put his hand on my thigh
and tell me about some fine wine he drank years ago
and how I should let go
and fuck more often.
He would tell me
I should sit in the sun
and let my white skin brown
and not bathe
and not wash my sheets until they were as brown as my skin.
He would put his arms around me
and whisper words in my ear,
like ‘circus’
and ‘horses’
and ‘dollar rooms’.
Later he would pull down his pants
and masturbate in the corner
and then
tell me he’s hungry.
He would eat a bologna sandwich
and sit on the porch
and play ball with my dog.
He would tell me I’m thinking way too hard
and that the poems I threw away this morning
were much better
than this one.