Sweating hay bales to the horses I'm reminded of Bukowski,
his lack of any sense of Earthly Paradise.
His bums, his drunks, his floozy whores give no consideration
to the bucolic nature of the American outback,
carry on as though the hole Charlie's screwed them into
is a universal constant. I stand melting in a blaze of sun,
tossing itchy weeds to my snickering Percherons
who must think of me, if they do at all, as the risen Son
sent from horseyheaven.
I slug back a beer and picture myself in that world of
drug addicts, shysters, corrupt cops and vicious jockeys
while feeding the gutfelt needs of my heavy herd.
Four tons a month to keep them out of dog food cans
that bag ladies relish, washed down with six buck scotch.
...
Adding your comment:
Except for that f-word, I liked the realtime sound of this and could smell the sweat of hard, honest labor. Ah ... you should write more about your Percherons (btw, I think the apostrophe is not needed in your poem, David).
