DICK BOWLER

 

brautigan

the spray stain of blood

and brains on the window pane

reminded him of home

 

penis popcorn

family apples

poisoned

or not

haunt the empty

bowls collecting dust

in cold or hot

cluttered rooms

inside your head

where you reside

unable to find

the exit

the stairwell

to take you down

to your heart

your gut

the bowels clenched

against your cock

swelling

out of control

locked out

of the basement

elevator stuck

on the top floor

till the power goes out

nobody knows

where it goes

when olive oil

pokes her head out

of the medicine cabinet

maybe you blow

into the roots

to sweeten the apples

or a black rose

certainly fertilize

the family tree

more branches to prune

dirt to sift

you dig

fill the bowls

the bowels

your cluttered mind

juggling game

times and deadlines

heedless as bluto

or brautigan still dead

and headless

on the floor

of shelly duval’s

apartment

his willow stick

fishing pole

charcoal tipped

from roasting wieners

like the glistening

one she watches you

pull by hand

like popeye opening

a can of spinach

before it’s too late

before the dreams

and the day-shift

writhe to coagulate

clot and dry into

one two three

strikes you’re out

no balls no skin

no legacy only this

pile of parchment

and maggots etching

a hemingway end

identical parties

for the bald twins

bawling out

wimpy for stealing

freaking the fucking

trout out

about discovering

love cannot be

caught nor won

written into a yes

because love just is

until it’s not

and how your throbbing

cock got involved

is the old wolf

in sheepskin

but wolves need to eat

kids to take care of

their nibbling and nipping

pups pawing and yipping

prowling the woods

like dick howling for willard

to pull in another

bowling trophy

to pull off another strike

pick up the spare

in that final frame

pull the trigger

kill the light

and end the poem

the bat-boy’s feast

this all-you-can-eat

maggot ball

step up to the plate

and swing away

one two three

strikes your out brawling

balling and crawling again

in that old ball game

batter-up load-’em-up

number forty-four

let her roll nothing

doing no score

what is that stench

you have no stomach

for you hurry to the shutters

let some light in and watch

your step it seems

like somebody spilled

a bowl of tapioca

pudding on the floor

but it sounds more like

egg shells as you cross

the room panicked

for air an open window

you can only imagine

the smell of silence

ringing in your ears

drowned out by

the roar of hundreds

thousands

of blue-black flies

buzzing still

nobody’s home

 

for Gatz and Richard Brautigan

 

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