Her house sat on the edge of a hill, up there with the shot callers. She was an entrepreneur who was interested in representing me; she said she can make me the next Bukowski.

I laughed. “There will never be another Bukowski.”

Her living room laid in the house's corner, like roadkill, surrounded by three glass windows in place of walls. I saw no speakers, but Coltrane played throughout.

Fifteen minutes into my poetry, she suggested we drink, which led us to inhale several bottles of red. She would make comments about some of them, followed by reasons for unbuttoning her shirt. From my seat I watched the sun fall from the sky, dragging bright yellow with her as the Moons blanket draped.

“I love it,” she said, “We can take this around the world.”

I liked that.

I like it when people genuinely like my pieces; it fills my void of existence.

I thanked her.

We danced in celebration until we ended up on the floor, dizzy and hot. She started working her hands, creating paths on my body.
She assured me she didn’t do this often. This was new to her.

I believed her.

Her eyes confirmed it.

She got up from the floor, telling me she would wash up and for me to wait in her bedroom, the second door to the right next to the bathroom.

She hurried off.

I walked over to the enormous windows and looked out to the city; it was gorgeous, then I walked my *** out of there.

I figured she wouldn’t be able to help me because there will never be another Bukowski.

I wake up, **** drunk, with a headache that quakes at my temples and somewhere towards the rim of the tail of my head, that dense pocket. It takes my brain for a spin while I’m removed.

I attempt to get myself up off the seat I fell asleep in. My grip slips on the wood grain handles. It’s imported legs rub against the wooden floors, shrieking.

I try once more.

I triumph.

I slinky over to the kitchen where I wash my face in the sink, hoping to rinse off some alcohol that has seeped through my pores.

The frigid water wakes me up, opening up my lungs at whatever time it may be, wherever I may be.

in the hospitals and jails
it's the worst
in madhouses
it's the worst
in penthouses
it's the worst
in skid row flophouses
it's the worst
at poetry readings
at rock concerts
at benefits for the disabled
it's the worst
at funerals
at weddings
it's the worst
at parades
at skating rinks
at ****** ******
it's the worst
at midnight
at 3 a.m.
at 5:45 p.m.
it's the worst
falling through the sky
firing squads
that's the best
thinking of India
looking at popcorn stands
watching the bull get the matador
that's the best
boxed lightbulbs
an old dog scratching
peanuts in a celluloid bag
that's the best
spraying roaches
a clean pair of stockings
natural guts defeating natural talent
that's the best
in front of firing squads
throwing crusts to seagulls
slicing tomatoes
that's the best
rugs with cigarette burns
cracks in sidewalks
waitresses still sane
that's the best

my hands dead
my heart dead
silence
adagio of rocks
the world ablaze
that's the best
for me.

Her lips,
indica,
leave my body,
sunken.

Pressed up against the wall, her arch creaked, her spine sang and my right held her at the base and my left wrapped in her silk mane.

She leaped,
flipped,
twirled,
and dipped,
with her hips,
so quick,
I came,
to my senses,
before I slipped,
in it.

the words that slip
off of your lips,
fill my curiosity to the rim.