Poem for Bukowski
The last of the Skid Row Bars is waiting to be closed
and the bums still sit outside of Los Angeles Central
with their bottles in brown paper bags
and the library is waiting for one more fire
one more budget cut
to bid Los Angeles eternal good night
Far exceeding imitation dreams on Bunker Hill
past Los Angeles’ hunger
and the craze of the barren desert of East Hollywood
through bloody and broken chains
and bus stops made all around the country
Through expectations left behind with your ticket stubs
you found your voice, and you lent it to this impoverished city
Beyond the seedy side, bathed in a palm’s shadow or
glowing in brash sunlight or sleeping noisily through out the night
onward, to the mythic place where
its Stars, its Politics and its Attractions
all shine as a beacon
to let the world know that this is the place to be
and Its call is heard and the people come
but your Los Angeles is gone
what’s left belongs to someone else
and for them it’s too late
The commercial that is life here
is no more than a shallow feeding frenzy
And there is not enough to go around
The bars are closing, the hookers are disappearing
and there aren’t many places left to shoot new films
They continue to drain the life out of this city
and you were right old man,
“No rose will ever grow here again”