i wanna be a real poet,
live by the rules of bukowski

& no mama,
i can't get out of bed
not before the sun
sits high in the noon's time

& no mama,
my grammar school rules
are gonna go to waste

& no mama,
i can't use tall letters
when henry chinaski himself
leaves everything
low,
feeling low,
lying low

i don't know any girls
named jane
i don't drink beer
or sleep with
innumerable women who
just fuck me & run

but i wanna be a
real poet
the kind who fights
wee people in bars & loses
and hurts when
the beautiful suicides
are the only ones we see

i'd drink my pains away
but the last thing i need is
another glass widening
my waist,

i'd sleep with a million men
but the last thing i need is
another heart to ache,

i'd bet on the horses
but the last thing i need is
another way to have
loved & lost.

my throat thickens
to echo the songs of sparrows
the shape of your lips
whispered through mine.

when i lift your shirt,
i see the mountains
traipsing over your heart,
i see the valleys
as i trace your stomach.

i am an adventurer,
crossing the fragile east indies,
the spartan deserts of upper africa,
looking for exploration.

my hands are my ships, your skin my ocean.

your waist breaks into your hip,
the shore of foreign lands,
cresting wave and falling tide.

drinking cups of stars,
we are thin nylon skin,
abashed teenage heat
erupting from our cores
and every orifice
as we proclaim our love
for the moon,
from our bodies.