what a hot summer day

I might write like Bukowski, Celine, Hemingway, or like any other
depressing
alcoholic
suicidal maniac,
it comes with jack of the trade.

Michael Buble got away with singing like Frank Sinatra and
so did Sarah Vaughn too. So why can't I?
we're so much alike,
Buble and I.
rising from the ashes of our fallen Gods we kindle
the flames of the unoriginal verse once again.
the same words
the same lines
the same 12 bar blues.
Christ, couldn't you write your own shit Michael?
but that's OK. the Jazz standards do that to you, and it's unique that
way. no other style of music covers itself over and over again as much as jazz-
no other style of music plays the most original works of improvisation either.
but you see
Jazz is dead and so is
Bukowski
Celine
Hemingway
and that leaves me with this terrible sadness as I
sit in a lawn chair next to their graves sipping a lemonade on this hot summer day.