[New-Poetry] The Postman Always Pukes Twice

[Anny Ballardini]

It is funny. I sometimes think that maybe among my students or the people I met there is a Bukowski or a Kerouac, ...
 
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  From: jforjames at aol.com 
  To: new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu 
  Sent: Tuesday, November 27, 2007 2:26 AM
  Subject: [New-Poetry] The Postman Always Pukes Twice


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  Though he didn’t know who he was at the time,
  he’d sometimes meet Bukowski at the door, 
  recognizing a kindred drunk, his face still lit with 
  the faint afterglow of a hangover. He’d stand there
  at the door, scratching his balls through his bathrobe
  as Bukowski handed him a fistful of junk mail 
  without making eye contact.  His great American novel 
  stillborn in the typewriter platen, sitting there
  on the kitchen table, the sink piled with shitty dishes.
  Bukowski hurrying on to the next house on the street,
  the L.A. sun buckling the pavement of sidewalks, 
  counting  out  the steps, stops till quitting time, 
  and a cold one down at the corner bar
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