Bukowski would have written a poem now,
I think, at one am as I **** in the toilet
and the TV flickers quietly
in the other room.
he would write about how she sleeps alone
in his big, new bed and about how he’s not
comfortable in love
but loves anyways
and I think, I would write that poem too
but it would not be quite as beautiful, not
to mention its lack of passion
for Bukowski’s was a hot fire
and mine is a cold one
his was force
and
mine is a bond
that’s why when I read him,
that first time and to this day,
I feel that I can finally
write
because poetry is
a fire, a hot fire,
the hottest there
is
but my warmth is external
it comes from good poetry
and success and love,
all of which I have
but cannot
use
Bukowski would say **** it
and drink to the cold summer night
for being itself despite the odds
he would buy a lotto tickets
till his paycheck was gone
and smile when not a single
one cashed in
you’ll figure it all out when you accept
that you don’t understand
that’s where I’m at,
******* at one am while my love
sleeps soundly without me
at a loss for understanding
versus a world that owes me
no explaining
hopefully, things will get
easier