i have been writing for some time now, poetry and prose and general rants about space and time and miller high life. i was writing long before i knew who bukowski was, but after my first time reading him, something snapped. there are similarities in our life (no i'm no clone or anything, just poor and drunk) which is why some poeple have said they find my poems somewhat like his.
i don't think so.
i could never turn simplicty into beauty like he does.
i have been published in the first edition of uncommon sense in new orleans. thats all. i'd like to get some more stuff out there
police station, disabled drug dealer, baby k, then me
the old house where i
used to live. where so
many people
fucked.
on the couches, every
bed, counters, tables,
(pool and dining room)
bathtubs, front porch,
against the walls.
where everyone drank
every day.
and, on that note,
when you live the
miller high life
you will inevitably
puke on someone
you love.
and she'll make you
sleep on the couch
where so many people
fucked.
yelling that in the
morning, your gone,
mother fucker.
and in the morning
she'll forgive you.
after cleaning her
hair, the bed, and
the wall. and you
make love on that
couch
where so many people
fucked