The wind blows against her porcelain face and gently wipes away a tear.
that’s how a real poem starts thinks the man of letters at the bar
who yells, “Your poetry sucks,” as if my purpose is to appeal to his tortured soul.

Are you bored by the dull sameness of romantic poets who are called brilliant because they teach
at University, have bifocal glasses with silver chains, and, talk of love, nature or beauty every third stanza?
do you think love is best described as an exchange of body fluids?
then let’s hang out just for tonight.

Only those who go to poetry readings know the tedium of listening to mediocre artists who think
someone gives a purple shit about hearing their personal poem.
until one night Michelle came to my reading.
now she was a brilliant artist.
she told her very personal story every night at the local strip joint to a crowd of men
drowning in a cesspool of unfulfilled desires.

Michelle could do things with her body that romantic poets can’t capture in rhyme or verse.
romantic poets are too busy looking for the deeper meaning of life
to notice the essence of life gyrating and pulsating in front of them.

Do you mourn Bukowski?
then have a shot and beer with me
and move on.
let me enjoy my solitude.
it is my only friend tonight.