Political Butkowski

Political Bukowski


I wake up angry. I want to yell and scream:

dullards surround me,

caring only for themselves.


They will themselves deaf and my anger

can’t scorch their titanium-cased

minds and their shriveling, snotty hearts.


I ponder laying my blazing match on the tinder of their world:

Burn it down—bare stone—start again.

I laugh: magical, maniacal; my atheist heart

stitched with leaping human hubris.


I choose to loiter with the wretched of the earth.

I am a willful angry outsider everywhere; knowing

the gutting limits of creation—No paradise extent:  

None.  Neither by stepping in Attila’s bloody hoof-prints

nor by fingering Gandhi’s peaceful looms.


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