Dearest Chuck, there’s a thing on my mind
I must tell you. So sit by me and don’t panic,
Don’t crash your blue Cadillac into a streetlight
At twilight or howl at the half-moon, don’t
Cradle your whiskey like the whore cradles you
As you suck for dear life on the pointed nipple, don’t
Start a bar brawl in your brain and upturn the table,
Because nothing’s happened yet, but you see,
The thing is, I’m embroiled in an emotional affair
With another. It’s part flattery that he’d write about my
Starving on his apartment floor, roaring before I was even born,
Part lust and a little bit of love.
He’s not dependable like you are, he’s boisterous, a performer,
A lively one, a young and crazy one, a slight but strong one,
His lines are longer and flailing compared to
Your firm grip, and there’s fruit falling from his fingers for me
And fire all around us whenever I drink at his bar
And he wrapped me in electrical tape, carried me
Across the room and left me upon the stage.
The other thing is, you know him. You’ve written poesy
On his type and it wasn’t complimentary. So don’t go mad now,
But the man in question – it’s Allen the poet,
And I’m torn in two about it.
You and I, Chuck, we joked about a Vegas wedding,
Before this everything was fine, now I find myself
Vigorously fantasizing over the assonance of another,
Ending in a plosive on the tatami then turning on my side
I drift into dreams of a gingerbread house
With three levels (not including the basement
Where the real fun takes place) and on the letterbox
Engraved in gold: Bukowski, Ginsberg, Mokhtari.