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.