The Cult of Celebrity
by C.S. Brambach
Bukowski is dead.
He turned off the classical.
To the desert rain,
Not the mean merciless pounding of the cold heartless Gila Mountain hailstorm.
No, soft cooling after the slow, hot day,
And quick bright, early evening thunder,
Sweeping the criminal element,
From the streets,
Washing the dust from the city,
Like a breezy young, new nurse,
Giving a sponge bath,
To a wheezing old woman.
Refreshing even to the blues in the subconscious soul of his dreams.
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