Bukowski no. 12

I was supposed to give a friend input on what he wrote.

Perhaps I even intended to write him notes in the margins,

to write a compliment to his vision and effort,

but there were other things on my mind.

I read what he wrote and I liked it,

but for the last seven months

I’ve been really fucked up about Cicero getting killed

so I didn’t know how much I could help.

Bukowski no. 11

So what if Shulgin died? It matters not.

Cancer took him, swift and sure as meter.

The handle of this coffee cup is steel.

It is true that men must die but not I,

not I.

I have stared into derelict mirrors,

My hate like an old strand of wheat pasta.

“No man can kill me!”I claim this loudly.

No man would wish to. This torch will burn out.

Still Shulgin is dead, my poor friend Sasha,

Who dreamed of a world that had never been.

Now the angels break bread with him and sing his songs.