and so
I spent my 20s
trying to write just like him
and somehow it got me
my first real book-deal,
from an editor in America
with leanings toward fascism,
and in hindsight
I suppose I can see why. we’re all
too easily taken
by the romance
of the hard life, working jobs,
working women,
wandering in a wildness
of wine,
like butterflies
and mad flowers,
and he could write
a stylish line –
that helps.

I think
if I could give
any advice
to someone trying
to be a writer
it would be
eat a few pages
of bukowski once
and early on
and then quickly shit them out
and away from your system
with dried plums
and milk of magnesia.

it was original
only
when he was doing it,
and anyway
there’s no
romance now
in being an original bastard
with a bad soul.
not
when
real bastards
are so easy
to come by.