I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library- Jorge Borges



Monday, 23 May 2011

Bukowski



It was a good day
when I met Bukowski.
He held my hand.
Real tight.
Then he carried me over his shoulder
from the post office to his place.
His door was marked ''Hank's House''.
The walls were stained yellow.
He sat me down on his drawers and
untied my rabbit fur boots and
placed them on his windowsill.
He stroked them for a while,
as though they were one of his beloved cats.


Then he laid down on the floor next to his bed.
I thought this was strange.
He told me to think of his chest as
a spring board.
''Imagine you’re trying to touch the ceiling and
JUMP''.
I thought this was even stranger, so I asked
''Why?''
''Because I want to feel the weight of you on my
heart.'' he replied.
To hurt him I did not want, but I wanted to
appease him more, so I stepped on his chest
(his skin felt loose beneath my feet) and jumped.
And as I did,
he caught my ankles
which brought my arms thrashing through the air.

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