Junk

sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,

female.
brown paper bags filled with trash are
everywhere.
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
hospitals.
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
its relief and food stamps and
Medi-Cal.

men are usable objects
toward the fix.

it is one-thirty in the afternoon
and outside small plants grow.
their children are still in school.
the females smoke cigarettes
and suck listlessly on beer and
tequila
which I have purchased.

I sit with them
I wait on my fix
I am a poetry junkie.

they pulled Ezra through the streets
in a wooden cage
Blake was sure of God.
Villon was a mugger.
Lorca sucked cock.
T.S. Eliot worked a teller’s cage.

most poets are swans,
egrets.

I sit with 3 junkies
at one-thirty in the afternoon.

the smoke pisses upward.

I wait.

death is a nothing jumbo.

one of the females says that she likes
my yellow shirt.

I believe in a simple violence.

this is
some of it.

- Charles Bukowski