Dear Bukowski-

You're an ass

But you're brilliant.

Your voice is a leathery wet paper bag-

Torn so easily

But so tethered.

You sound like a beer being opened

Like a cigarette being lit.

You speak like the smoke floating up

In the air

After one good smoke

After one good lay-

You linger in the air.

You're never frozen,

But always lukewarm.

Your face is a road map

Of heartbreak, but the best kind of such-

Heartbreak that doesn't care as much.

Heartbreak that knows it's how it's gonna go.

No, no, maybe,

We have everything,

And we have nothing,

You say.

And it's so...

You.

Bukowski.