even cannonballs slow

you could call this truth.

i've come to terms with myself
in recent years.
in fact it often feels as if
i've been to hell,
stayed for a drink or two,
and walked back
barefoot and bare-assed
over broken bottles and
angry cigarettes and
sticky sidewalk gum.

some words work for me.
others don't.
me, though,
i run a tight ship,
better than ahab
or blackbeard
or kirk
ever could,
and i whittle hornets' stinging barbs
down to points
sharper than
bukowski on a summer night.

call me an existentialist,
but i believe your best thinking is done
when you play stripper
without a pole.
shake for me, darlin',
and i'll give you trifles--
trinkets you'd never wish for
and kisses
you'd never ask for,
but you'll suck on them
anyway.
like a big happy
peppermint.

i haven't lost it.
is that what they're writing about me?
damn them.
even cannonballs slow
when they've struck
bone and soul.

at least the moon still sings for me.

Author's Note

Ahhhh, Bukowski.

Reviews

[Kenneth The Poet]

Nice work, I wish I could weave words like this sometimes.

[Miss Fox]

Mr. Atkinson, you never fail to astound me. Your poetic eye and skillful tongue weave original and thought-provoking poems that capture one's attention and hold it well past the last line.