My father was a half-Jewish Romanian
but passed for Mexican
He was one of the last hired men
on the pocket ranches crammed up against
the foothills of the San Fernando Valley
As the years went by
he became less Jewish
more Mexican
and finally split for Sonora
I heard he married
a Mexican woman down there
and had a few kids
He stole my base
took my equilibrium
Bukowski claimed that base for a while
but the relationship was short-lived
and when he left my mother
she killed herself
I wondered why she hadn’t killed herself
when my father left
Was Bukowski that special
him and his ugly puss?
My father was a working man
That’s what he was about
My father was solid
just who he was
In Sonora my father sat on the porch in the evening
and carved figures from wood
He never did that in the San Fernando Valley
If he did
he could have taught me
I could have learned
to become a wood carver
maybe done that for a living
I could have become a silent man
instead of becoming like Bukowski
full of words
words coming out like water from a sprinkler
on a parched L.A. lawn
My father’s Mexican wife was taciturn
I heard
from a friend of his who
passed through the Valley
My father was just as taciturn
so they never argued
over stupid shit
like most couples do
with all the words
tripping them up
Bukowski argued
He was a big arguer
engaged in a ceaseless argument with the world
with himself
with my mother
but my father knew
there was no point in arguing
with the ones you love
or the ones you hate
What were you going to accomplish?
I wish my family were still together
but my parents are both dead
and I’m half dead
like Bukowski was
when he was alive
and now Bukowski is totally dead
like everyone else
I wish I had
never become a poet
never cemented tragedy
and disappointment
in words
No comments:
Post a Comment