I’ve
got to
wonder
what’ll happen
when all
the Bukowski
runs
out
he,
despite my best
efforts,
is the single
greatest wellspring
of inspiration
I have
it’s not what he
says
or who he
is
it’s just,
every time I pick up
his books
and turn to any
page
and
read
I am
always
inspired
the poems
flow,
like a river,
a rushing river,
out of my mind
and onto the
page
he knows,
where ever he’s
at,
how painful
it is for me
to be so
dependent
on one
man
I’m sure he
smiles, takes a
drink, and
laughs
up in heaven
or where-
ever
and reads over
my shoulder after
I put down his words
and quickly,
like a feral dog,
spill out
mine
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 8:52 AM UTC
I’ve
got to
wonder
what’ll happen
when all
the Bukowski
runs
out
he,
despite my best
efforts,
is the single
greatest wellspring
of inspiration
I have
it’s not what he
says
or who he
is
it’s just,
every time I pick up
his books
and turn to any
page
and
read
I am
always
inspired
the poems
flow,
like a river,
a rushing river,
out of my mind
and onto the
page
he knows,
where ever he’s
at,
how painful
it is for me
to be so
dependent
on one
man
I’m sure he
smiles, takes a
drink, and
laughs
up in heaven
or where-
ever
and reads over
my shoulder after
I put down his words
and quickly,
like a feral dog,
spill out
mine
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