Last night I dreamt that Charles Bukowski chortled at my attempts to be brilliant.
He laughed so hard he creased the ominous glow of the moon in two,
leaving little light for me to find my way out of the **** dream.
I was stuck for hours.
Going round
and
round
and
round
and
round.
Until suddenly I woke.
A thin veil of hope slicing through the blinds,
But I did not want to open them.
The sick part of me regretted waking up at all.