In Iran in the rich, delicious pear region,
there sits the centrifuge for the development
of atomic bombs.
I don’t want to end up like Bukowski,
a bitter career alcoholic, Writing classes?
Classes are for asses. (can’t even look
at people or talk to them), hating other poets
Writing is all about leaving behind
as much stink as possible.
Or George Carlin who went from hippie,
dippy weatherman, The forecast for tonight
is mostly dark, but getting light toward
morning, to a working rageaholic
out of rehab and in denial.
I’ve imagined how the two of them
would have gotten along during
an all-night “drinking fest,” insulting
each other to the point of fist cuffs.
I turn on Carlin’s 3a.m. HBO special,
an endless rant, dropping numerous F-bombs.
Lynn says and I agree, Turn it off.
Bukowski, a life-long pugilist of men
and women, Carlin, a pathetic skeleton
of his former self.
Both mummified
in a dangerous atom smashing,
If you have em, smoke em,
deathly moving, indifferent universe.
John Sierpinski has published poetry in many literary magazines such as California Quarterly, North Coast Review and Spectrum Literary Journal. His work is also in eight anthologies. He is a Pushcart nominee. His poetry collection, “Sucker Hole”, was published in 2018 by Cholla Needles Press.
