Another new poem...

She Wanted to be Charles Bukowski

or the female version,
a busted piece of person –
1/2 metal, 1/2 blood.
She woke up every morning to gin
and eggs,
drank until the bottle was dry
and the apartment
a mess.
She told me that's all there is to it
and sent postcards
telling me about different men,
some large,
some thin.
It was their notoriety she was after.
And then,
she stopped writing all together.

She waited to be Charles Bukowski,
the blunt end of a hammer.
She wanted to choke herself until
pained words
put themselves on paper,
dribbled black on white.
Genius.
She told me that he's hiding in her,
behind organs,
and demands she go far away
to where the sun
doesn't stop burning –
make a man out of sand
and canyon,
and lay with him until
the longing
kills her.