I never liked Brenda.
She's manipulative,
likes to ******-analyze people,
and she gaslights Nate.
Oh, and she's a *** addict as well
she has cheated on Nate
more times than I can remember.

I never told Nate about her
he found out on his own.

Nate isn't much better though
he got another chick pregnant
so he cheated on her as well
but as a person overall
he is likeable— unlike Brenda.

Nate has a condition
it's called AVM
it's a malformation
in his brain arteries.

He is currently under the knife
he has a bleed in his brain
they are trying to fix it.

Before the surgery
I saw Nate crying
in his mother's embrace
he kept saying he didn't want to go
and his mother said
he was going to be ok.

I cried a little.
I hope Nate has a chance
of being a dad
I think he would be good at it
and I don't think
I'll ever see Brenda again
but I hope she finds someone
and she recovers from her addiction.

I don't know what's going to happen
I hope that in season 3
of six feet under
Nate doesn't board the bus
that took his father
into the after life...

You know, I hesitate
going in season 3
no, not because I'm afraid
that Nate is going to die
but because I know
that would never care as much
for an actual friend
the same way I care for fictional characters
and that says a lot about me
I only allow myself
to empathize —
when it's fake.

You are the butterfly
that softly whooshes
between my ribcage
and that flutters
around my heart
aiding in its job
of moving the carcass
that is my body.

Even if you oddly
revert your
metamorphosis
and stay still
next to me
and rest in a cocoon
allowing silence
to rule for a day or two
perhaps
I've hurt you
and that's your way
to regenerate
from my unintentional
hurt.

As I lay in bed
I do the same
I go back
to my own cocoon
I shelter myself
out of site
but I'm no
butterfly.

You probably think
that I go around
thinking about how
Bukowski would approach
what I'm trying to say
well, I don't.
Yes, he's my favorite poet
and I respect his work
and the amount of honesty
he puts in his words
but if you think
that I don't know
that he *******
sprinkled on his work
and that he exaggerated
his life style, stories,
poems, novels.
then you haven't
read enough
of his work
(or mine) to know
that me and Charles
are nothing alike
and that makes you
irrelevant.

A sack of flaming dog ****
on someone's
welcome mat
ready to be put out
by the home owner
who will stomp you out
look at their shoes
and look at you
rinse you off
with the backyard hose
and forget that you
ever bothered him in the first place

within a couple of weeks.

And that's what makes you
my eternal enemy
because no one cares
about your opinion
of my work
and how different
and unique it is
from Bukowski's.
And if that's true
then the chances are
no one else will either.
God has doomed me
to be a hell of a writer
who can see right through
your lavender
infused poetry—
Leave it for the tea bags.
That's the prospect
I'll have to live with
as I am right now
at 4 am
while I stare at the walls
my dog twitches
while he sleeps on the floor
and while he dreams
insomnia
keeps me company
while it rains.

Oh, and *******.

Do you think
that I don't love you
even for
a second?

Woman
when we're
on the phone
I always
tell you
when I'm
sitting
on the crapper.

If that's not love
I don't know
what is.