as I cling
to my section of reality,
the gutters are full
of ink,
thoughts, dreams, nightmares,
the degradation of humanity,
hides no more,
flows free,
as I sit here,
sipping iced tea,
laden with lemons and sorrow,
waiting for Bukowski to arrive,
the shitzu by my side,
guarding me,
from hordes of mosquitoes,
without fear,
waiting for a nibble,
of sweet butter pecan tart,
the world so alive,
as I write,
to regain my sanity,
freedom,
recovery,
i admire the lone tree,
in a meadow of pity,
rustling in the wind,
the birds singing,
the cat pretending to be part
of the tree,
the whole while,
me nursing the fable
of a broken heart,
pretentiously,
pretending,
to be a poet,
writing my sorrows away,
hiding from humanity,
i wonder,
Bukowski where are you?