bukowski.

who grabbed the megaphone

who pointed a finger
who burned a crisp dollar bill
who sang hallelujah over a bottle of whiskey
who was the first to admit he cried over his first love lost

while stomping over her grave 

who twisted the commas
the capital letters
who was not afraid 
to manipulate the english language

who was the one who taught us to write about what we saw
our city
our dirty
our hatred
our anger
our red

to drool on a page and call it poetry
to offend somebody
to set fire to a memory they destroyed
then sleep next to the ashes

when there were no rules
and no boundaries
no six am alarm clocks
no morning train
no application forms
no child support
no rent due
no hail Mary's

or I wish I was a better man

He wrote 

damp soliloquies
on prostitutes
and garbage bags

discarded cigarettes
and sidewalk graffiti

he spoke over stale liquor

and failed childhood dreams 

he wrote 

one of the last brave souls to do so.