The Honest Version (Poetry)

(on reading Bukowski)

It’s Sunday morning — late
it’s dull outside and still
no breath of wind
the pigeons in the trees
sound half asleep
their coos fade into silence
a dog barks and another
yaps an answer.

Cars pass — on down the road
engines whining into distance
and the quietness rushing back
settles like a question.

I read a bit
and in my head
something stirs and shakes itself
demands I pay attention
a voice I’ve never heard before
tells me how my thinking’s wrong
and I should listen now
the truth is waiting.

The stranger’s voice within
is mine —
no longer drowned or mute
behind all those other voices telling
me so loud
and often in my sleep
what I can or cannot say
and even how to say it.

I like this voice
it snaps and snarls
and chews up stupid rules
it laughs out loud.

The voice is me
no make up on
or fancy literary dress
no pose or posture
in its tone
undiluted — all the words my own
as far as I can tell
the feeling’s real.

And it wants to talk
to catch up on the years
it had to sit there
dumb
while I tried on
other people’s words
wrote down all those
too-neat poems.

When all the time my
true voice ached to scrawl
free to express
what isn’t pretty.

We have some backlog
to work through
the lines are humming
with the weight
of years of conversation
plus this serious compulsion
to translate an honest version
of myself.