You probably think
that I go around
thinking about how
Bukowski would approach
what I'm trying to say
well, I don't.
Yes, he's my favorite poet
and I respect his work
and the amount of honesty
he puts in his words
but if you think
that I don't know
that he *******
sprinkled on his work
and that he exaggerated
his life style, stories,
poems, novels.
then you haven't
read enough
of his work
(or mine) to know
that me and Charles
are nothing alike
and that makes you
irrelevant.

A sack of flaming dog ****
on someone's
welcome mat
ready to be put out
by the home owner
who will stomp you out
look at their shoes
and look at you
rinse you off
with the backyard hose
and forget that you
ever bothered him in the first place

within a couple of weeks.

And that's what makes you
my eternal enemy
because no one cares
about your opinion
of my work
and how different
and unique it is
from Bukowski's.
And if that's true
then the chances are
no one else will either.
God has doomed me
to be a hell of a writer
who can see right through
your lavender
infused poetry—
Leave it for the tea bags.
That's the prospect
I'll have to live with
as I am right now
at 4 am
while I stare at the walls
my dog twitches
while he sleeps on the floor
and while he dreams
insomnia
keeps me company
while it rains.

Oh, and *******.