Looking for Bukowski in Palos Verdes; A Poem is the Chelsea Hotel by M.R. Mandell

Looking for Bukowski in Palos Verdes

I stumble over graves,

crushing flowers with my heels.

The sun fades into the hills,

gates scheduled to lock

at the first hint of night.

I scan the headstones,

they all look the same.

Rows of strangers

tucked under grass.

I am not afraid

as the dark settles in.

I feel alive surrounded

by ghosts, especially

the ones who died drinking

whisky as they typed.

I don’t mind silhouettes

gliding over mausoleum

walls, dead faces staring

through leaves.

I’m looking for the home

of his pockmarked skin,

and voice of a dying beast.

Whose words make witches cry,

and devils blush. They pull me

to my pen, haunt my poems

with their anthems.

They call me to this place,

perched on the peninsula’s tip.

To search for his simple epitaph.

Finally, I see him, resting on the ridge.

Alone. A space by his side,

waiting for his wife.

I kneel, wipe dust off his plaque,

smile as I read Don’t try

etched in stone.

I say a prayer,

and cry.

A Poem is the Chelsea Hotel

                        after Bukowski

A poem is a hotel bed,

with stained sheets,

and bras twisted under silk.

It’s the housekeeper counting

her tips, receptionist singing

the blues. It’s portraits of dead

artists glaring at strangers

slinking up stairs, haunted

eyes following them to their doors.

A poem is marble floors bruised

by the boots of Schuyler, Thomas,

Cohen, Vicious, Smith and Mapplethorpe.

It’s lyrics whispered into smoke,

lines scratched on envelope flaps,

pages crumpled in the trash,

chapters aborted in the dark.

A poem is face-slapping arguments

between lovers, poets coughing

up blood, blowjobs given

by fallen rock stars.

A poem is punks, pockmarked

and pale, shooting heroin

on the toilet tile. Knives thrust

into hearts. Fashion models

shivering on the roof, barefoot,

and alone.