After hearing Bukowski read his poem "Style" this morning, I wrote this poem in response.
Style Part 2
Bukowski wrote about style,
because Bukowski had style.
He did dangerous things with style,
like boxing, loving, opening tins of sardines.
Standing in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square,
now that’s style.
Sticking a flower down the barrel of a rifle,
that’s style, too.
Jesus, saying nothing, drawing words in the dirt
in front of a village full of people reading
to smash some woman’s skull to pieces with rocks.
Most dangerous things are done today without style,
Which means the world is devoid of art.
You and I make art,
every night, when we fall asleep,
as we kiss each other, and promise
till death do us part.
A dangerous thing, that.
… to love that nakedly.