Ode to Bukowski


People think it is easy to sit all day and write,

but what do they know of working and not making any money?
They would think it absurd, an absurd comedy out of a play. Waiting for a book deal.

Waiting for a reply to a magazine.

Waiting for rejection letters.

Waiting for no one.
Years of this. No partner would accept this kind of relationship. I hate
myself. I hate those

so-called poets

who get book deals.
Why do I suck?

Why must I collect

rejection letters. My

poems tell no one’s

story but mine.
I am so poor, I am so

hungry. At least I have

my music

record player

books

typewriter.

I will be dead one day

and everyone
will finally know
I was a poet.
Not that I even care what

society thinks about me

thunderstorms ache.

trees cry

sidewalks shake.

 

I write poems to make a living

rejected

artist. A few times in my life,
I had great connections

with the homeless
the poets hated me.

but not as much

as I hated them.

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