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
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."