the work of bukowski
has a way of
keeping me alive
the way he tells
his stories of suffering
through poverty and heartbreak,
doldrums and rages,
starved, psychic bleeding
words and whiskey
and cigarettes and anything else
anything to dull the pain
of being in this
idiotic hellscape
dealing with the
stupidity of
people
it brings a certain
grace, a poise,
almost a
kind of dignity
to my own
world
reading his poems
keeps me halfway sane,
keeps me
alive
and god,
how i hate him
for that
what the fuck,
chuck?
what the fuck
did i ever do
to you?
©2026 Kevin Trent Boswell
Kevin Trent Boswell 