reading Bukowski while listening to Waits

suddenly
I
realize
what it is
I
really
want
for
Christmas:
a
typewriter.

an
old one
circa 1950
or
so
just
like
me.

Underwood
Olivetti
Smith-Corona
it
really
doesn’t
matter
but

the
kind
the
real poets
and
the
real
writers
sat in front
of:

drink
in
hand
smoke in hand
morning at hand
death
at
hand

pouring
out
shit
that
really
fucking
mattered

to
them
to
you
to me
now

THAT
is
what
I
REALLY
want
for
Christmas!

but
why in hell
am I
telling
YOU
all
this
bullshit

YOU
already
know . . .

the piano has been drinking
the piano has been drinking
the piano has been drinking . . .

and

so
have
I!


<sub>The Piano Has Been Drinking (Not Me),
lyrics by Tom Waits.

Copyright © 2006 Michael Dunn
All Rights Reserved.</sub>