Done With Bukowski

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I’m done with Bukowski.
Done with the stale cigar smoke
and bar napkin sonnets.

Done with the man ~
with the rueful pronouncements 
poured out like yesterdays brew.

Done.  And why not?
My exes have all married,
save the ones who still 

pound on my door.
Done with the pathos 
the pain and self pity;

with the drunk 
on my bathroom floor.
Sure, I’ve learned.

I’ve learned to live 
with blue walls;
wallow in a

much cleaner gutter.
Learned to hold my poetry
close to my vest,

lest the world see 
the sham 
I’ve become.

I’m done with Bukowski.
Done- til that desperate moment
when the darkness 

sets in.
Then I’ll turn 
to the sot,

awash in rye whiskey.
Bedfellows alone
at the bar. 

(Lede photo: Image by 4924546 from Pixabay)

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