MOYAMENSING PRISON:
—Charles Bukowski
we shot craps in the exercise yard while the
dummies played ball with a torn-up shirt
wound into a ball
once or twice a day we had to break it up
under a tommy gun from the tower—
some black-faced screw pointing it at
us, but,
by god, through it we somehow played
and through some skill and
luck
I soon had all the money in the yard.
and in the morning and in the days that followed—
the screws, the sparrows, the shivs, the dips, the
strongarms, the looneys, the hustlers, the freaks,
the discarded dream-presidents of America, the cook
in fact, all my critics, they all called me
"Mr. Bukowski," a kind of fleeting immortality
I guess,
but real as hogs' heads or dead flowers,
and the force of it
got to me there:
"Mr. Bukowski," ace-crapshooter,
money-man in a world of almost no
money.
immortality.
I didn't recite them Shelley, no,
and everything came to me after lights out:
slim-hipped boys I didn't want
steaks and ice cream and cigars which I did
want, and
shaving cream, new razorblades, the latest copy of the
New Yorker.
what greater immortality than Heaven in Hell,
and I continued to enjoy it until they
threw me out on the streets
back to my typewriter,
innocent, lazy, frightened and mortal
again.
_______________________
Medusa is back. Send poems!
Oh—and Theresa McCourt points out that the last Medusa post said "Ellen Bass writes" when it should've been Molly Fisk. Argh......
—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.)