under
the bukowski sun
isn’t
l.a. so much fun
freedom
to flit
to
latte and sit
and
live like you are second to none
when
i was young
elementary
school
i
remember writing stores
making
up songs
but
my life is defined
less
by my decades of writing
and
more by my relationships
with
women
i
remember all their names
all
the games
which
ones meet which needs
captivated,
obsessed, enslaved
memories
carved on my heart
i’ll
share no events
context
or pretense
each
one gave
each
one took something away
and
my only mistake
was
i hung hopes for happiness
on
how they felt about me
and
yet i still see
women
walk through my day
my
thoughts overstay their welcome
while
i wonder,
“could
she make me happy?”
no
wisdom am i
just
a guy
with
more issues than national geographic
wanting
an eight legged spider
who
will devour me
to
satisfy all of her needs
the
more i bleed
the
more fertile the seed
soiled
in my garden
watered
by my wants
where
she determines the fonts
then
starts writing the story
and
my part in it
layers
of pain
too
heavy for a crane
but
i only remember
how
close they came
to
matching my desire
consuming
like fire
and
i am the timber
they
cut and burned
***
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