Bukowski told me
they’ll never let you
write the poetry you want.
Or nap half the day,
without being punished.
When I told you
you said ‘Who’s Bukowski? “
And everything
seemed to vanish,
behind some
plastic sliding doors.
In dreams
Bukowski told me
they’ll never let you
write the poetry you want.
Or nap half the day,
without being punished.
When I told you
you said ‘Who’s Bukowski? “
And everything
seemed to vanish,
behind some
plastic sliding doors.
A Wandering Poet 