when you find yourself reading too long and too much from a book edited after death

the kind of woman who can’t afford a rooming house
but finds herself at yours
at Uncle Buks’
either at 3 in the morning
or
3 in the afternoon

both times you’re trying to
read
write
stay sober-drunk

and everyone is pounding the walls
the ceiling
floorboards

yelling

‘CAN YOU GET ANY LOUDER IN THERE’

‘BAD ENOUGH WE GOT YOU

GET RID OF ‘ER’

but you can’t
get rid of her

she’s a bad memory
she’s locust
a pure shot of what you ({[don’t]}) need

and it’s too hot
it’s summer

it’s inhospitable
and rude

what would Chinaski say

not

WWJD

besides – you say

she’s sitting on the windowsill ledge
and the drapes are drawn
closing out the sun
the stars
and the fan is propped up trying to
suck in cool air
or suck out the heat

and she’s just sitting there
in a wife beater
tall socks
and roller girl shorts

she’s got her way of showing
without showing

everything your mind wants to feel rotten

and you stand so she can see you’re impressed
letting her know
she’s not going to be kicked out by you

you shuffle around the typewriter
and into the kitchen
you grab more ice and another glass

you don’t want to share

but you know she’ll let you bum a smoke

.
.
.

you’re back in the living room
even though you know
this ain’t
living

and she’s sitting on the couch
tapping on your typewriter

tapping on your coffee table
that empty hydro line spool with the perfect holes
for holding styrofoam cups

and she grins a cock roach smile
circling the hole
the drain

says

‘ PUT THE CUP DOWN AND POUR’

so you pour

and the night
or the day

the middle of the clock
ticks on

and life wasted
continues to amuse you in ways
that only you can appreciate

.
.
.

she leaves at a point where your
self awareness is on its hands
either 6:30
or 12:00

either
or

both hands have been round full in this rooming house
as she closes the door

her high heels clicking
down the hall

back into the wilderness of
a Bukowski strip
knowing both debauchery
and understanding beauty

in all it’s ugliness
and flower perfume forms.

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About Crazy Irishman

Touted as a working man's poet, Martin Durkin has been writing professionally for the last 12 years. He has appeared in over twenty anthologies across North America, including, "And left a place to stand on", a collection of poems and essays about the late great Al Purdy. Durkin has also published two collections of poetry, "Hypnotic Childhood", and "The Sound of Quish". Over the past 4 years, Durkin has been on hiatus for the most part but has recently come back to the poetry scene creating a poetry site called crazyirishman.wordpress.com, where in the past year he has written over 100 poems and created a cross over page on https://www.facebook.com/crazyirishmanpoetry where he gives a story behind each of the pieces written. View all posts by Crazy Irishman

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