Poetry Slam Tuesdays (and the true meaning of Xmas)

I know I've already featured Bukowski in the short-lived poetry slam Tuesday feature, but I just can't help it. One of my presents from Santa and Mrs. Claus (AKA Jay and Jasmine) was my favorite Bukowski collection, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense.

I love this collection so much that, as a gift, it made it into my Top 5 of the year. And believe me, competition was ROUGH this year. It started off with a bang on the 23rd when Jay handed me my early present, Mickey's Christmas Carol on DVD! (And some say I'm not getting paid for all this blogging!)

Yes, I realize I'm getting away from the thesis of this post, which was to delight you with the words of Bukowski, but all in time. For now I need to delight you with my Top 5 of Xmas '09. Cause that's the meaning of Christmas, right? Presents?

Top 5 of Xmas '09

5. Loafer Slippers (Not only are they super comfortable, they are also bright purple AND sparkly. Yes, sparkly. And the sparkles are a brilliant fuchsia tone.)
4. You Get So Alone... by Charles Bukowski
3. Dirty Dancing 20th Anniversary Edition Soundtrack! (YES!)
2. Sly Stone vintage tee
1. DIRTY DANCING: THE BOARD GAME

You might be reading this list and thinking, "There is absolutely no way one person got this many fantastic presents in one Christmas. It's just not fair." Especially not the same person who sunk lower in her chair when her nephews squealed as they opened their MarioKart Wii game and remote controlled spider, "Who are these from? This is awesome!" and the rest of her generous family said, "From all of us!"

Yeah, it's just not fair. That's what I'll be thinking as I dance around my living room to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, wearing my new slippers, Sly tee, and my new sweats. (The sweats didn't make my top 5 but probably should have, as I can't stop wearing them. I'm sick right now. Cut me some slack.) When I get worn out from doing the merengue and Johnny's Mambo, I'll be reading Bukowski aloud to the cats.

Right, Bukowski. The man. He didn't start writing poetry until he was 35-years-old. 35! That means I have just under a decade to get my act together! Hoorah!


From You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense:

O tempora! O mores!

I get these girly magazines in the mail because
I'm writing short stories for them again
and here in these pages are these ladies
exposing their jewel boxes —
it looks more like a gynecologist's
journal —
everything boldly and clinically
exposed
beneath bland and bored phsyiognomies.
it's a turn-off of gigantic
proportions:
the secret is in the
imagination —
take that away and you have dead
meat.

a century back
a man could be driven mad
by a well-turned
ankle, and
why not?
one could imagine
that the rest
would be
magical
indeed!

now they shove it at us like a
McDonald's hamburger
on a platter.

there is hardly anything as beautiful as
a woman in a long dress
not even the sunrise
not even the geese flying south
in the long V formation
in the bright freshness
of early morning.

Now, who wants to come over and get their ass kicked in the Dirty Dancing board game?