Fractured Like Thin Glass And Glued Together Again

by Bradley Mason Hamlin

7 am
and Bukowski keeps me company
in the bookstore
as I rip open the cardboard boxes
heavy with overwritten works
once again
trapped
in
a
stupid
job
and I put away a book
then quickly sneak
and read
a Bukowski poem
then I put away another book
one for them: one for me
together
Bukowski and I
can make it through
the monotony,
the co-worker’s commentary
and the invisible paycheck;
I will use the dead man’s words
to give me giant sparks
of life
like capsules of speed
the way
good jazz feels creeping out of the radio
and he will surely look down
from on high and
piss a river of rain over the angels flying
to create a rare lightning
once more
because
even rejoined with Mozart
Bach & Beethoven
I know he must not have
forgotten
how it was.