Barry doesn't live here any more

Don't bother me just now, can't you
see I'm busy dusting off Bukowski?
sorry my main man, it's time to 
tattoo a little sanity onto the fever of my brow,
clink a crystal glass filled with mockery--

to all the unholy
gods that bring humans together--
fuck you, if you make us part!

what am I to do?
I pull tufts of grass from serpent eyes,
ironweeds from crumpled and stained jeans,
split my tongue with new horizons of necessity
I am a dung beetle
rolling what little time remains
on the ashes of my bearing,

I'm still hungry for the moon
and today,
when the smell of you has faded from sheets,
clean and stiffly folded

Bukowski's not just another poem in a book
he's my saviour,
I can hold him in my hands.