Mixed Metaphors When I was young, 19 and 20 I started writing poems, Tried to write them anyway, And I sent them out most every day. In that era, one could be a Pretty bad poet and still you’d see Sometimes you’d make it into a small mag With lots of other poems that’d make you gag. And yet, often there were famous writers there too Famous then or later, with other poets like you: Bukowski was one, I called him Buke he always remained faithful To the little mags who loved him Celebrating his stuff about life and nukes He’d still get rejection slips sometimes, Even when he was rich and sublime To millions of readers putting him in the zone Making a million bucks a year on German Royalties alone. [guitar bridge] Those early poems of mine, Had their own fates and destinies, So hard to write, So awkward, for me Like the very first Efforts at asking Girls to dance: Trapped in puberty and hopeless Dreams and fantasies of romance And working on schemes Wanting to kiss, and hoping for more but at that age, never able to score. Still, once in awhile A gorgeous blond, In her tight pink sweater Full of great style Would simple smile and whisper, “Yes” To a poem, of course, never to sex And the two of us would walk onto the dance floor, My wet hand in hers, sweat starting to pour my heart going ape-shit Almost as good as tearing open A S A S E from a tiny mag Out of Owl Fart, Iowa, With a circulation lag Of maybe two-fifty And that simple word, “Yes.” that was heaven then it’s still heaven today when Even after a long lifetime Of both good and bad sex. You get that sweet smile With all it suggests.
