Trying to find Charles Bukowski,
in some places is not easy.

It is easy to find Keats and Tagore.
They come running at you,
like a bright and dusty sun.
As subtle as love making on a drunken
Saturday night.

Yesterday a friend asked me
“Why would you wanna read Bukowski anyway, he
just writes about sex and drinking?”

“What else is there to write about?” I said

He paused…
“The jagged mind and shattered dreams…and all that”

So I thought about this for a minute and told him
“Nobody writes about this anymore, it doesn’t sell”