We're all Bukowski's poems,
Stolen from the rawness of stingy
Beer bottles and crotches of whores
Bedding his sadness.
The illegible bloodshed on tissue,
Left unread beneath a park bench and
The one lost to chance while he typed
On inkless ribbons.
We're all Bukowski's poems escaped
For good when he poured rum on his
Bluebird to keep it hidden in his ribs
And goodbye to his broken car,
Sent prematurely to salvage.
Fifty miles from nowhere at Twelve past
Twelve and coffee mixed taste of a cigar.
A twenty-year-old with a 9 mm waiting
To reconsider his options for one last time.
Sleep wanting a cigarette break-
Life coming alive in the dead of the night.
Swollen fingers compulsively pressing
The keys of the typewriter in an
Attempt to erase his suicide letters.
We're all Bukowski's poems, blamed
For crudity and lack of aesthetics-
'Burning in water and drowning in flame.'
Trying to stay relevant in specific niches,
Like 'Love being a Dog from hell.'
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