a poem by Harry Calhoun (1 of 2)

Rejecting Bukowski

It's like abandoning religion
and embracing God as a beautiful substitute
for whatever eternity you imagine.

When you put you in your dream,
you realize that even God has to rest
on his days off. Say he was a relief pitcher,

Mariano Duncan, maybe. One day he would
be tired, hung over--Mariano, not God--
and maybe injured and his strikeout pitch

would vanish. Back when I edited a poetry magazine,
I rejected some Bukowski. Not the man, his poems,
and I still don’t know if he was throwing some heat

past me that I missed or if he was just due
for the showers that day. But I rejected Bukowski
and he died and I will too, but neither of us

owe that to poetry. That, my friends,
is simply what we do, and rejection

is as much a part of it as breathing.

© by Harry Calhoun
 
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #10 ~ July 2010    next poem