Huge difference

final draft:::

"Summer Day"

Bukowski kicks morbid today,
his shoes sporting spurs. He
craves blue pearls and scribes
history, beckons four favors
from the local taxidermist.

Bukowski spills vodka on my couch,
taps out melody on my coffee cups.
I dampen his rhythm:
ba-domp-domp-dmph.
Plumes sprout from our necks;

we are prepared for the next
utilitarian crustacean to arrive.


-----------------------------------


first draft:::

Bukowski hates me morbid today
for craving love or meaning, either
wither, but which? Ballerina history
hates me today because I am too
stubborn to ask my boss for an advance.
Deer hates stale me, but doesn't know
why - he's too far to understand, and
we never seem to change except that
we both get more stubborn. A constant

Summer is fumigation for mildew, but
it's not very effective. So how long are you
doing this? Where are you moving
when you move? I can help you move boxes.

No!!! You torment me. Prick
my finger, and I cut too far, but I feel
something, at least. I know I feel something, and
I'll never live close again. You'll never touch my box, moving or otherwise.

Evasive, I am not. Evasive both, but not I.

Bukowski is sitting in his living room instead
of my room, because I am not good for his craft.
I dampen his rhythm. Badompdompdmmm. . .

He likes me but doesn't - me. Ballerina sits
on the phone, asleep, waiting for a ring to wake her.
Not quite on silent, but not quite on ring, either.

She wants to love me. Deer is away, silent, like he is. He's probably a sociopath. All deer are.

Let me remind you that I hate this coming holiday.