In The Style of Bukowski

broke again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bowl
of weed, I have typed on a dozen to 15 pages of
shit
an old girl
maddened for the flesh of hung men in this
dwindling fright night
lover gone
kid ‘bout going
momma pooped
top-floor blood lust

while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my legs
no woman will deal with me
no Oprah Winfrey to watch the
Johnny Carson show with

if I have a baby I will die here. One of six
ways, those three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, chest, head

the boys who played my heart with music ...

I promised myself never to write sad girl poems
but this one's funny, you see, irrefutable, be-
cause I've long gone past diddling myself and there's
still shit show left
here at 3 a.m.

I am going to take those sheets from
the dryer
have another toke and
insert
the fresh assault upon Clorox whiteness

maybe get lucky
again

first for
free

like
a pusher.