Bukowski

he was a great writer

he wrote of women, beautiful women, whores, mothers, lovers and strangers

he wrote of quiet girls in gingham dresses, in pantyhose, and Texas girls

at location 1371 on the kindle, he has advice (for me) on how to be a great writer

i do the beer, but not in sufficient excess

i do the the fucking, but not the women

i do the Bach, not the Brahms

i do sleep until noon, not the no overexercise

i do the not paying for anything on time, not the credit cards

i agree that no piece of ass is worth over $50 (in 2012), my surgeon may have other opinions

i do the love, i have trouble with the myself

i do the early taste of death, and keep repeating it as fast as i forget it

i do stay out of churches, but not of museums

i live with spiders, but i am not patient

i dare time, i know exile 

i got a typewriter, i use a computer

finally, after i read it too many times and conclude,

i got it all wrong, 

then he wispers 'learn to win'

I walk

I walk in the rain, my hands fisted.

On the right I hold a few coins, on the left a few matches.

The coins are money, and I think frugality.

The matches are a giveaway, and I think ephemeral.

It is raining, and I walk.

I listened to a woman rumble on about understanding art.

I ask myself if art needs to be understood.

I do not answer. I am tired of not listening to myself. 

Walking up the hill I meet a young man holding a flowery umbrella.

I think of my one-night stands, there a few. I remember one.

I keep walking. 

There is another page to turn.

I want to draw again.

I miss him, it's almost killing me.