the difference, Bukowski

yes, Bukowski
i too have wallowed
in a bottle of

and died
with the hot barrel
of some pistol
pressed against my unholy

i too, Bukowski
have loved a woman
and watched her scurry away
a pair of legs
running rampantly for the

yes, Bukowski
i’ve driven the road
to some shithole destination
where i threw my lifeblood
into a dealer’s hands
and watched like magic
as he made it all go

i too, Bukowski
i too

for we both
have wandered by streetlight
to empty roominghouses

we both have fallen asleep
to alcohol

and the static of the television set

like a glorious reminder
of what could be

but i don’t stay there
one morning i wake up
i shit shower shave
and i take that
empty glass bottle
and i smash it into a shiv
and i stab the world
i give the whore her money
and i move on
i make my bed
and i move

you see
Bukowski, that’s
the difference, Bukowksi

we’re both coiled snakes
feeding off our own

both bit by the same mongoose
but the difference, Bukowski
is i strike back


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

One thought on “the difference, Bukowski”

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