Bukowski Sits On My Keyboard, Writes Bad Poetry

it's all your fault that i got a rejection letter the letters were wrong and their order not right, what was i thinking, sending my thoughts out loud to a Brit no less, la di da i digress i just wasn't in proper dress for the refusal, metaphors all dressed up in red silk and stiletto heels, my panties in a bunch in your pocket Buk, you've always told me the truth, shall i order hot dogs smothered with onions and sauerkraut from the vendor down Lorain Street and write poetry on the napkin i wipe with send it, sealed with a kiss? the eagle of my heart breaks into its sojourn, and here i am feeling like pay dirt, the sky thunders, i think it's going to rain.