BUKOWSKI LAUGHED:

BUKOWSKI LAUGHED: ARE YOU A POET THEN?

9/13/20226 8/9AM

I am a pretender to the thrown

tossed into an arena of the mighty

unarmored with naught...

but a broken sword.

Stabbing at empty air

pretender to a throne

The latest jester to the Ivory Tower

sits upon his copper chair

so shined up by his followers as to think it gold.

A mirror practiced effete wrist gestures,

blithely speaks,

"What have you for me this day, jester?"

'O great and mighty one

I bring you a stranger

claiming words and thoughts

never spoken, ever written...

A braggadocio of words, small and smaller

So we shall test him, Mighty One.

And if he stutters

if he stumbles

each time

a whiplash rendered incentive will

cut!

He proclaims himself a poet, O' King

but we judge him a pretender, thus...

We seek your will

or will not...

By word of mouth...combat looms

"ARE YOU A POET THEN?"

The drip of words hides no disdain

as the king settles into his part

of masterful exclusion in wit.

"I am but a writer,

of ill gotten gains,

a copier of copious words

with no rhyme or refrains.

I am a dictionary of meaningless

repetitions.

For a penny

I will work.

Easy in the ears, if it makes you sigh..

Heavy on the heart if it makes you cry

But I promise nothing...

A story, maybe

hidden in the lines.

A dancer,

Diver,

Race car driver...

or even an immortal...

Your choice indeed,

and in deed, Lord King.

And for 2 pence I will sing.

And for the audience so charming,

I beg a boon

to not judge so soon,

But take a moment.

Be still.

Do not taste of this jester's swill...

But Stop!

Now you add to this story..."