Self Imposed Limits

I want to be a Bukowski bandit
surreptitiously purloining
his immediacy and gruff

I want to sit in my room
gloating, "yeah!, I've got them fooled",
as I glare at ink stained fingers
from a monstrously old typewriter
while punching out forgeries as clever as "Bluebird"

wondrous words
rolling easy,
ordinary as those in a comic book
or a weekly tabloid.
yet, strung coolly as polished pearls
while still able to singe the heart stings
of the hardest of men.

even if hell-bent on pulling this off,
(to say nothing of my lack of talent and compunction)
I won't do it.
I can't.

it would be sacrilege.