when I am feeling
low
all i have to do is
watch my cats
and my
courage
returns

sometimes when everything seems at
its worst
when all conspires
and gnaws
and the hours, days, weeks
years
seem wasted –
stretched there upon my bed
in the dark
looking upward at the ceiling
i get what many will consider an
obnoxious thought:
it’s still nice to be
Bukowski.

Cats tell me without effort all that there is to know.

I see a bright
portion
under the overhead light

that shades into
darkness
and then into darker
darkness
and I can't see beyond that.

Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?

I paid, got up, walked
to the door, opened
it.

I heard the man
say, "that guy's
nuts."

out on the street I
walked north
feeling
curiously
honored.