Reading Bukowski

Reading

you, Bukowski, is

pure inspiration—in

turn of phrase,

w/ emotion laced

angst all over the place

in the open

heart

of your prolific prose

poetry

pulsating

amazing

sheer grace

in the face

of

don’t know what’s becoming of me

here

& yet, I thank you

for now

I remember—

I’m slowly learning

how to also live out on a limb of uncomfortable,

uncompromising

discomfort rubs me up

all in the wrong way

but I sit

on it

understanding

it's not abuse

it's instead, a form of

resuscitation

this hard-done-by feeling

is strangling

the timidity out of

don't know if I can

but

I can't

no, I don't

and maybe even I won't

be

re-membered

in many years to come,

forget

years when

a day is too long to

live in obscurity

like we all

do

often,

you do

not

see me

ignore you in I'm afraid

it’s all too

much

like

an

illusion

I'm losing myself

kept

locked up in

9-5

profitability

9-5

respectability

9-5

irritability

9-5

impossibility

blues

so I crawled out—hand over fist, hand over fist,

hand over fist,

over

& over

& over

& over again

face plastered on this long plank

------------------------------------------------------------------dead woman

not walking

just clinging on for

dear

& mere

existence

beyond my fear of great heights

from where

I see you, Bukowski,

in struggling me

reading.