Two Poems by Regina Green

ode to bukowski

hey you lucky son-of-a-bitch bastard

i whipped my head around
wondering who the jerk was
but the giggly jiggling blonde on my arm
purred “just ignore him…”
like she’d been through this very
same situation a thousand times before
the men walking with her
suddenly bad little boys

and then
a brush of bouncy breast
against my bicep
and i thought
he’s right

i am lucky

____________

and the blood goes everywhere

i’ve given myself over to poets with
their hearts wound round their knees
with tongues that announce every
elevator coming down, with bones like
shirred curtains, reminders of anonymous
flesh and petite gross incomes.

poets who love propaganda, tar and
jungle and hotel rooms that smell
like cigarettes and semen. there’s a
painting that hangs crookedly over
a bed, the lamp with a bare light
bulb, the telephone off the hook.
it’s silly to think you’re alone
in a sea of chronic masturbators.

i love a dirty thought, the way you
write it down and it becomes more
beautiful.