when i read too much
bukowski
i find myself
growing surly
as if infected
by his grumpiness.

he painted the world
in red wine strokes
that bled any
preconceptions
from the tattered
fabric of reality.

he never sugar coated
the hell of living
focusing instead
on the hairy mole
on the chins
of the whores that
drank his beer
and stole his heart.

chain smoking
while banging the keys
half cocked
and over full
of persnickety passions
oozes from every line.

i need to go off
and read sylvia
or maybe neruda
shake the funk
of badly placed bets
and that goddamned
artist across the way.