I like Bukowski
Because I find him true
His ***** reality
Is mine too
All the angst and languor
I feel the same
Too bad he died
Just after I came
And now so few
Of my generation know
Of Him
Who's Bukowski?
They're asking
Quietly I tell them
He's one of the few
I have the pleasure
Of knowing.
Is it possible for two people
To have the same soul?
I wonder
Will there ever be another
Charles Bukowski.

Carlos asked me
About books last night
He was a stranger
But I think it didn't matter
Because I could not
stop talking
About the books I'm reading
I told him about Pendergast
My favorite fiction hero
He looked genuinely
Interested
But I know I must
Stop
Right here
Because I didn't want
Him to know that
That's just what I
Wanted to do
Because I need a job
Too
So we went back to talking
About numbers and work
Trends and schemes
Some of the things
I'm not really interested in.

Oh Dawn!
You never fail
To give me hope
Your sunshine is
My armor against
The rope
After a night of
Battle
With my demons
Inside
Your rays
As you rise
Makes them
Subside.
But just like
Everything
Else
You'll go away
And I
Won't...
Can't...
Keep them
My demons
At bay.