I’m not as bad as I think I am, and

I’m not as good as I want to be.

I don’t think you’re that good either,


Though people love you

 Even as you scorn them,

Revere your sickness

And you secretly don’t believe

They do.

And I keep coming back

To your poetry

Wondering what all the fuss is about,

Wanting to appreciate the magic

I think I’m missing,

And see sleight of hand instead.

Shaking my head, I put the book down

And I say to myself that

A drunk 10 year- old could have written that,

And I feel jealous of this 10 year-old.

Your words don’t touch me, old man.

I can appreciate your naked cynicism,

I’m a cynic too,

But I get hate for being one and

You get accolades for it.

I’ll keep going my own way

Hoping maybe something will turn over.

And I guess, if I’m being honest, believe

We will meet in a bad dream one night

And have it out.


ON BUKOWSKI   (1920 – 1994)

Massive stomach

Face full of pocked marks

Red oily skin

A clown’s nose

Cigarette, unusual brand, fixed to lips.

 Bottle unmistakable in hand

The wobbly drunken battleship

Of a man,

A throwback,

The ape as poet.

A Hollywood clochard,

He negotiates

The sunny sidewalks and piss- stinking watering holes of East L A

Expounding on whores and misery and booze,

And the” sissy poets” he he likes to call out.

‘They just don’t get it’ he slobbers…


This night

The poet is beacon.

Megaphone in hand

Bukowski  slurs the message,

Dead eyes

Encrusted in something still human.

Sinking into the sludge,

Leaving us his suicide note in

 Black and white.




 it is not enough.


 It is just not sad enough.

Poems are never as sad as they should be,

Life is always worse.

Look around,


Look around and tell me