If I were Charles Bukowski,
I’d be dumb enough to find this romantic.

By “this” I mean the pervasive alone
and the constant mixed drinks.

If I were a fatter writer, content in my misery
I’d make gorging myself a gimmick.

But instead it’s just another hidden, dark, thing
tunneled under the over weight surface.

If I had half the sense I do now,
the girls would flow, without beauty, into my bed

but that’s just racetrack nonsense
for people that actually believe in Hank Chinaski

If I were as dumb as Charles Bukowski
I’d idolize Hemingway and forget my laptop at the airport

instead, the quiet tapping in a half filthy room is just sad
lacking the inner romance that marks the delusional

If I were a different voice I’d write nonsense and sell it with a boozers smile
and intimations that there’s something darker underneath

fortunately, I’m not Charles Bukowski, dead and gone
just some lonely fuck, half way between thin and stupid
sitting alone tapping on quiet typewriters.