If I could be anything
in the world that flew
I would be a bat and come
swooping after you


Billy Name, Warhol at the Factory, 1964

Reminiscent of a Bruise
-- by William Vieth

The creature is now nothing more than a bruise
Black, Blue, White, and stained red
It sits there staring at me with cold, lifeless eyes
I feel no sympathy
no remorse
Too late to deliver salvation
Instead, I abruptly ended the suffering
Hobbling across the field,
Its wing dangling fruitlessly
I watched mixed with pity and excitement
I would have to play God.
The girl and I fanned out across the field
She, my scout, yelled the location of the jay.
The bird saw me and fled, clinging for life as we all do
A loud crack
a plume of dirt
The bird kept running
The threat is near
Again and again,
An angry rancher,
Trying to provoke lazy cattle.
Feathers sprung up everywhere, red spattered the ground
A joyous gasp exited our lips, watching the creature meet a timely end
The deed is done
The reward is hers.


For The Foxes
-- by Charles Bukowski

don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
luck.