Bukowski

There is a starving poet
in his one bedroom
Los Angeles apartment.

he staggers home drunk,
and stuffs the rejection slips
into empty drawers until
they are full and spill onto
the floor.

the mice live on this,
along with poetry.

a swollen eye bleeds
from its conclave of blows

a cigarette flashes
with the snap of a gear

and a bottle is opened,
as the ashes collect

his alcoholism does not
make him a better writer,
he's just a writer that has become
an alcoholic.

then he writes of bar fights,
prostitutes,
and the horse races.

the radio is tuned to Classical,
Vivaldi in a cave.

then he writes,
and
the epic poem collects
in

1623 North Mariposa Ave, #303
Los Angeles, California