It's one of those late nights. Silence falls Like rains in April. Loud and thundering. My cats keep me company With my whiskey That I'm trying to save. Oh but it's a rainy day.
A Bukowski lies flat Face down near my foot And I can't help but wonder The writer at his desk In his daily drunken stupor.
I live in the city now. Neon lights outside my window Selling everything you do not need. An oriental ornamentation Of liberation Of individualism Of catharsis Of relation to every frivolous whim Going on in that little head of yours. Of reaction To every frivolous whim Going on in that little head of yours.
I have nothing else To do But open my book And find a pen. Hurriedly, scribbling my thoughts On the paper before more words come And eat them up.
And may be that Is poetry. Not missing any thought That whizzes past you While you cater to every frivolous whim Going on in that little head of yours.