I don’t want to be Bukowski
anymore
Filling women with my emptiness
Dowsing ***** with gasoline
Fondling the
icky, sticky
gritty sweet with my
fat-fingered, ***** nailed
slur


I want to be  J. D Salinger
Just one something
so significant,
(even if it outlines the disturbing),
and then
a permanent exit

But here I am
Just like chuck  
looking for a flamethrower
to eradicate that ******* bluebird

The words
spewed with all the sincerity
and eloquence I can muster
always lewd

I may have enticed a bit a love
via thin pen
to come knocking once or twice
but the sentiments
they contain no glue

And so when I tumble
back into
the hopeless spaces between
the dust and ***
there is no you.
or us

There is just
this interminably
ugly
I
believing Bukowski was right

And of course I deserve this ****
but
It would be better
to disappear
to never share
to take my ball and go home
forever
home
Yeah,

I want to be Salinger