Scrabbling for Pennies in Dark, Tiny Halls

INTO THE ARMS...
—Robert Grossklaus, Rancho Cordova

A river winds its way through valleys between mountains ranges;
sun glistens off its surface; broken glass
litters the ground around campsites; unmarked territory.
Across time and space reside humanity,
arms outstretched like a bed of nails; welcoming.
Run from the shores and from the river,
impale with homes and structures;
corpses, rooftops jutting from chests,
hearts stop beating and slowly forget
as a premature death works its way through the brain.

A child crawls up carpeted stairs
with the caution of a beaten dog;
hands clutching edges, slipping off,
knees colliding where feet should be.
A soft moan arises from a young larynx,
hair dangles in front of open eyes.
The top within reach, the child crawls back down
with the same caution as in ascension;
the ground is a welcomed stability.

A tongue licks parched lips,
a temporary moisture providing false comfort.
Swallowing old saliva, throat grows pleased with the sensation;
salivation from prayers between chapped lips,
grateful for a reason.
Retort and the tongue recedes;
the tonality becomes food and the lips begin to work,
back into the depths of voice.

________________________

Thanks, Robbie! Robert Grossklaus will be reading at Poetry Unplugged (Luna's Cafe) one week from tomorrow, that's next Thursday, August 24, along with Brad Buchanan. More about that later.

•••Tonight (Wednesday, 8/16), 6:30 PM: Urban Voices presents Luke Breit reading from his new novel at the South Natomas Library, 2901 Truxel Rd., Sac., 6:30 PM. Free. Info: 916-264-2920. (This series will be ending in November.)

•••Also tonight, 10-midnight: Mahogany Poets presents Mics and Moods at Capitol Garage, 1500 K Street. Features and Open Mic hosted by Khiry Malik. Info: www.malikspeaks.com or 492-9336. 21 and over / $5 cover.

_______________________

Today would've been Charles Bukowski's 86th birthday.

THE POETRY READING
—Charles Bukowski

at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing

a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door

a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here

it's too late.

my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
out—
desperate trembling
lousy

they can't hear my voice
and I say
I quit, that's it, I'm
finished.

and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.

this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in dark tiny halls
reading poems I have long since become tired
of.

and I used to think
that men who drove busses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.

_______________________

THE POET'S MUSE
—Charles Bukowski

there was one
made a thousand dollars
one day
in a town no larger than
El Paso
jumping taxies between
universities and ladies'
clubs.

hell, you can't blame him;
I've worked for $16 a week,
quit, and lived a month on
that.

his wife is suing for divorce
and wants $200 a week
alimony.

he has to stay famous and
keep
talking.

I see his work
everywhere.

_______________________

MARINA
—Charles Bukowski

majestic, magic
infinite
my little girl is
sun
on the carpet—
out the door
picking a
flower, ha!,
an old man,
battle-wrecked,
emerges from his
chair
and she looks at me
but only sees
love,
ha!, and I become
quick with the world
and love right back
just like I was meant
to do.

_______________________

—Medusa

Medusa encourages poets of all ilk and ages to send their poetry and announcements of Northern California poetry events to kathykieth@hotmail.com for posting on this daily Snake blog. Rights remain with the poets. Previously-published poems are okay for Medusa’s Kitchen, as long as you own the rights. (Please cite publication.)