They don’t write many books
about when the love dies
I tell em’ to picture the river
washing over the familiar rocks
The pull we feel to abandon
any sense of continuity
Our broken compasses
Our broken bastards
“An Ode to Bukowski”
Hell is a terrible place to tell a joke said the
man with the beard, as if God poured him
his cup of wine every night and whispered
the water into his rivers. and I’ve never
known how to love what i can’t see, you can
ask her and her and her, so your words
crawl to me. they don’t look me in the eyes…