Her house sat on the edge of a hill, up there with the shot callers. She was an entrepreneur who was interested in representing me; she said she can make me the next Bukowski.

I laughed. “There will never be another Bukowski.”

Her living room laid in the house's corner, like roadkill, surrounded by three glass windows in place of walls. I saw no speakers, but Coltrane played throughout.

Fifteen minutes into my poetry, she suggested we drink, which led us to inhale several bottles of red. She would make comments about some of them, followed by reasons for unbuttoning her shirt. From my seat I watched the sun fall from the sky, dragging bright yellow with her as the Moons blanket draped.

“I love it,” she said, “We can take this around the world.”

I liked that.

I like it when people genuinely like my pieces; it fills my void of existence.

I thanked her.

We danced in celebration until we ended up on the floor, dizzy and hot. She started working her hands, creating paths on my body.
She assured me she didn’t do this often. This was new to her.

I believed her.

Her eyes confirmed it.

She got up from the floor, telling me she would wash up and for me to wait in her bedroom, the second door to the right next to the bathroom.

She hurried off.

I walked over to the enormous windows and looked out to the city; it was gorgeous, then I walked my *** out of there.

I figured she wouldn’t be able to help me because there will never be another Bukowski.