Bukowski gets me
ham on rye with a little bit
of wanting to be nothing
cheap wine in a trashed hotel
a permanent spell on my
self control
all this time I thought I loved me
but I'm sinking
everything I write is a repeat
**** my novel dreams
**** my poetic schemes
I think it's time to sleep
for about five years
so I can wake up with no fears
and disappear
like each season