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Professor pulled an Elliot at the reading.

He wrote it in Greek, Latin, French, and English.

The guy next to me and myself,

We were able to get the gist of the English part.

Later, after the upper class was done

Discussing the greatness of Pound, Fitzgerald, Hemingway,

The two of us settled into drinks.

"Even Howl gets boring after a page."

"Hell even Alan Ginsberg wnet to one of those swank Univeristy's

With a Greek system, and Greek architecture,

And winter clothing with patches on the sleaves.

Campuses are easy to spot.

They're even easier these days.

Everybody's got a Norton Anthology stuffed under their shirt.

In the back along the spine.

For strength, I presume.

Those places are nice.

I mean

No one's got a chin there,

But nobody's going to stick a knife in you either.

They're not for me.

Never was, that whole American class system and all.

No, I'm sticking with Charles Bukowski,

The evil son of a bitch.

Hemingway's bastard son.

"I hope you're burning in hell, Charles Bukowski," she said.

"I hope I go to hell," she said under her breath a moment later.

Anyway, I ended up boxing the guy.

The one I got drunk with.

Behind the bar, like Charles would have.

I lost every round but in the fifteenth

I threw a haymaker to the heavens.

It connected.

The crowd went wild.

Then I took the best looking of my diehards home.

Nailed her drunk, like a stallion.

Both of us drunk and fucking the way it's supposed to be.

I called it, "Saturday Night Entertainment."

And when they printed it an old slob from the magazine,

The usual guy, handed me 50 bucks,
Said, "You got lucky again."

The poor idiot had no idea.

The next morning I spent 25 dollars on beer.

I got so drunk I saw two barfly's walk out my door.

Two days ain't bad, I said to myself.

And I remembered what Charles said,

That this kind of life takes stamina.

If you're wondering about the other 25,

I lost it on a horse named after actual people.