Bukowskiing

One day last year I was in a bad mood, and reading Charles Bukowski’s poems. Both factors combined like baking soda and vinegar, producing this high-school science fair-like mental gurgitation. I’m reposting it now because I’m awake, this one being the third night in a row I wake up right after the middle of the night for no apparent reason. Somebody get me some Hibernol.

Sleep
because I said so
and I’m much taller, and I get to tell you what to do

Sleep
because you are tired
but not as tired as I am of all the noise
the repetitive words

Sleep
close your eyes and make your chest
move up and down like the smallest tide
I’ll be listening until your breathing tells me the truth
the nose can’t lie the way the mouth does

Snore
because you do
even if you said you didn’t
how could you know, if you are asleep when you snore

Snore if you must
the sound is so small
only bats can hear it
and small kittens and special hearing dogs

No? There are no hearing dogs?
only seeing dogs, alright
I forgot
because I’m tired, and I forget things when I’m tired

Sleep
I’m tired of your excuses
go to your room and be quiet
climb up into bed if you can
that’s why I put that rope ladder there

I have things to do
important, giant things to do
things your mind doesn’t understand
because it’s so very tiny

Alright, no more mean teasing
but I’m tired, and grouchy when I’m tired
you should know that by now
go or I’ll hide the remote again

Put your house on the shelf again
make you date Barbie again
pull out my little black book again
look up and away at a distant point again

Sleep
and be grateful
I don’t know enough about roaches and whores and drinking
to make smoking guns out of them