my sins with Bukowski

you ramble with his poetry
book after book
but you are not a rose,
you are not a thorn
neither virgin, nor the whore
of his better days
under neon lights
and the sweat of inspiration

crying with Orbison and Lang
the touch that caressed
you deep
in the psyche of
your human jungle

you its prey,

and you build another empire
in the dust of your involution,
exhaling the animal instinct of a poem
you are its flame, but never quite
catch on fire

dirty dishes speak on your behalf
half-smoked
cigarettes stare vacantly into your eyes,
wine-stained sheets mix with
the semen of discontent,
the tenderness
of his poem,
escaping...

don't bother me with the logic of precision
just now,
don't look into my weaknesses:
your lacerations have disaffected
any meaning;
my residual defenses
and your "abstract" poetry
gnaw
my barefoot goddess image
like rats on an outing, like a chain
gang

don't let the cat out of the bag:
take my picture from your frame,
it's ten miles to the finish line and
one thousand and one feet from the edge,
I'm not finished reading
my headstone, my epitaph
blurs in the distance.

summer leaves are falling into the
missionary position,

somewhere a lotus blossom opens
and a newborn baby cries,
rivers flow into the wellspring
of what poems offer:

the unlikelihood of courage.