My Sins With Bukowski

cyou ramble with his poetry book after book but you are not a rose, you are not a thorn neither virgin, nor the whore of his better days under neon lights and the sweat of inspiration crying with Orbison and Lang the touch that caressed you deep in the psyche of your human jungle you its prey, and you build another empire in the dust of your involution, exhaling the animal instinct of a poem you are its flame, but never quite catch on fire dirty dishes speak on your behalf half-smoked cigarettes stare vacantly into your eyes, wine-stained sheets mix with the semen of discontent, the tenderness of his poem, escaping... don't bother me with the logic of precision just now, don't look into my weaknesses: your lacerations have disaffected any meaning; my residual defenses and your "abstract" poetry gnaw my barefoot goddess image like rats on an outing, like a chain gang don't let the cat out of the bag: take my picture from your frame, it's ten miles to the finish line and one thousand and one feet from the edge, I'm not finished reading my headstone, my epitaph blurs in the distance. summer leaves are falling into the missionary position, somewhere a lotus blossom opens and a newborn baby cries, rivers flow into the wellspring of what poems offer: the unlikelihood of courage.