Monday, December 19, 2016

A Christmas Poem

Christmas Eve, Alone

Christmas Eve, alone,
in a motel room
down the coast...
near the Pacific-
hear it?

they've tried to do this place up
Spanish, there's
tapestry and lamps, and
the toilet's clean, there are
tiny bars of pink

they won't find us
the barracudas or the ladies or
the idol

back in town
they're drunk and panicked
running red lights
breaking their heads open
in honor of Christ's
birthday. that's nice.

soon I'll finish this 5th of
Puerto Rican rum.
in the morning I'll vomit and
shower, drive back
in, have a sandwich by 1 p.m.,
be back in my room by
stretched on the bed,
waiting for the phone to ring,
not answering,
my holiday is an
evasion, my reasoning
is not.

Charles Bukowski

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