I leave them all to
their drunken joy
while only I alone
float out the door
on a different high.
Past the blood stained sidewalk
I see only hopelessness,
foolishness.
The winners and the losers
both stained the same red.

My heart has slowed,
my blood as thick as the
gummy *****
that has won its love.
Across Nelson st.
I continue forth.
I stop on the warm black top.
I once seen a photograph of
Bukowski smiling while standing
in this very spot.
I stop and try to feel his joy.

All at once I feel thick hands
pushing me on.
"You won't find it here"
A deep guttural voice says
against the back of my neck.
"Nope not here"
A tired weep escapes me.
"I'm here for you Old Boy"
The original Barfly says to me
as my tears become
the whole of me.
"You're losing"
His beer dressed
breath says into my ear.
"I know its hard but you cant stay here."

Bukowskis ghost takes
hold of my shoulders as I weep.
Pushing me on his
voice becomes harsh.
"God dam it this is how it is!"
He stops me dead center
on Nelson st.
"Didn't you read all that I left for you?"
His shouts are slow and raspy.
"I warned you!I warned all of you!"
I can feel his grip
tighten as my
sobbing shoulders sag
in retreat.
"This is how it is!It hurts!"
His shouts tear into the night
"And the returns are mostly nothing!"

His voice lightens
the smell of cigarettes and
cheap cologne are present.
"Go on now."
His voice now a note above a whisper
"Tend to your own demons.
We and the Gods are with you."

A pat on my right shoulder
then Bukowskis ghost
is pushing me on.
I'm a wreak ,
I don't want them to go.
But I know I cant stay.

I know who
I'm going to see
before
I turn around.
I know whose
hand I felt.
My heart begins to
slowly rip.
My tears run out of
flesh and fall onto
the still warm black top.
Tiny explosions billowing
tiny clouds of steam
erupt as I turn and see
Bukowskis ghost
waving a beefy
hand at me from
the corner of
6th and Nelson st.

Next to him stands
my Grand Father,
the man who
broke my heart
when the Gods
decided to take
him away.
He's smiling,
his malice free eyes
just as welled
as my own.
Bukowski puts
his arm around
my long dead
Grand Father
and comforts him as
he smiles that smile
I still long
for in my dreams.

I fall apart.
Then quietly gather
up what little
that is left of me.
I turn away from
the ghosts on Nelson st.
Focus on the
bright lights of the
Warner's marquee
and without looking
back I continue on.