I'm sick of being told that I'm "Not Charles Bukowski." Because, I never said I was. But also, and more, because, every time, (And I suppose I've told myself plenty too) It's a let down.
I want to believe (And not in that X-Files sort of (I Want to Believe sort of (way) That we're all Bukowski. We're all at least poets. At least we're all ***** poets, In one way or another. "I'm too ****** for this *******."
But this is starting to feel like The part in the film when I'm Talking to the old girl, and she says, "What I've said up to this point is Pointless. Now you decide." I'm at the part of the book When he finally finds her. And yes she still loves him, Or at least. She's loved him the whole time.
I can turn a leather recliner Into a throne, if need be. I'll tape a crown of paper together To prove a point. I just happen to think The kid getting high in my kitchen Has a real chance at the presidency.
(Grab this, draw a circle on the floor With it. Fill the circle up with Everything you know, the words The love, the colors, the mended, And the still open. Watch that light up At least a universe.)
I'd hope our kingdoms Could co-exist peacefully, But my respect for you, As a fellow ruler, Would never waiver
Because you can make your crown Of staples and business cards And be King Bukowski if you wanted, But at least you'd be special. And (at the very least), You'd be king.
An attempt to articulate the feelings of a "transitionary period" while still holding on to "who I think I am."