bukowski’s feminine side

i used to feel like his creator

but now i’m living like henry chinaski

beer bottles littering the desk

cigarette butts in the ashtray

there is a towel that hasn’t been

washed in a month

hanging on the doorknob

i spend all day at a soul sucking job

and every night in front of my

typing machine

while amateurs and pros

(in every sense of the word)

take my portrait

mentally, photographic, by the pen

some in the throes of passion

others in the thrill of conquering

me, life, art

i am becoming a satire

somewhere my namesake

is having geriatric lesbian sex

and that seems oddly appropriate

as i swear the next time

those will be the circumstances

of me getting laid again

i’m listening to songs from the year

of my golden birthday

what a glorious year

on the bus yesterday

i heard myself saying that my publisher

would be sorry that he took so long

to publish me

because i would be a laureate

the next ee cummings

a rock and roll rimbaud

the buk in female form

and it makes me cringe

my deluded dreams of grandeur

when all i’m really left with

is failed marriages and

ringworm

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