I don't drink anymore but I still read Bukowski

Photo by Parastoo Maleki on Unsplash

faint summer sounds and
lukewarm ambition
draped like a wet robe
suctioned against 
my naked
concerns.

it’d be nice to have a pool
Tiffany blue like a 
misshaped eye-organ
or a vibrator
clicked on 
lazy like death
and just as
slow

or some other 
chemical 
or
mechanical
way

out.

sometimes i feel like a poem
lets me break    free      of 

me

by dislocating the present

at just enough distance

in just enough shadow 
or sunlight

that it could be   possible 

i’m somebody 
else.

---

Author’s Notes:

Late afternoon. I picked up groceries and fresh meat 
for dinner from the butcher who just set up shop in my town. 
I’m having my father over on Sunday so I bought the best 
cantaloupe they had at the market. The berries were trashed
for some reason
and scarce.
It’s possible the world ends today, so we'll miss out
on the fruit and everything else.
As there isn’t much else going on, 
I’m going out back to smoke a cigarette and listen to the birds 
and the lawn 
equipment. And the silence that slides like a thick snake
shedding its skin behind
all of it. 
My husband strums his guitar. He won't stick with it.
If you are reading this, I’m as surprised as you are 
to find ourselves here. 

---