I
like when Bukowski refers to food as fuel
He’s
got it right
When
he kicked her repeatedly until she got off the couch he filled me with fear
I
guess you’d call this free or blank verse
I
don’t fucking know
I
try not to give it much thought as long as the words keep advancing like
potbelly stoves
They
come
In
drips, drabs and streams of unconsciousness
Maybe
it was a Freudian slip or maybe it was improv at its most oedipal
Don’t
forget why you’re here
Don’t
forget when she turned you onto Brautigan
Bukowski
went the distance even when words and alcohol pounded him senseless
Charles Cicirella
1/24/16
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