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Waiting In Brooklyn

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Balancing my brains with bourbon in some back-ally Brooklyn bar
nighthawks that had lost hope looking for the diner, perched in a meticulous row like tin ducks on a crooked shooting gallery on Coney Island

The fella to my right was coyly flirting with a glass of miller draft, his hands embraced around but not to tight, so that it didn’t slip through his fingersas the love of a good woman once ...

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americanaBeat PoemBeatnicBukowskiCharles BukowskipoempoetryTom Waits

Beethoven SOB

deaf sonofabitch
always close
to going
over the top
and very close
to not coming back
the one composer
whose music
makes me cry
an ugly
noisy sort
I am a cold fish
fully grown

he must have been
as well
to make me fly
like that
who else
can express
storms in the
that is a world
of silence?
Deaf sonofabitch
Try clavier 5
symphony 6

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