too late for coffee, second cigarette (Bukowski #2)

i was reading Bukowski,

laughing maniacally at his tormented prose,

and it dawned on me that i hadn’t had

my morning cup of coffee;

i hadn’t had a morning for that matter,

unless you count restless stirring

in bed as morning.

 

it’s half past eight and i think

i’ll have that coffee,

two tablespoons full

of freshly ground beans

brewing a pleasant odor

like the morning i forgot to wake up for.

no cream, no sugar.

i prefer it black. 

i prefer it bitter.

the coffee tastes like shit,

warm, watered down shit;

i drink it anyway.

 

six empty bottles sit on my coffee table,

vestiges from a previous night of escapism;

i’m not hungover anymore

but Christ i was yesterday!

i smoke my second cigarette,

killing myself,

wishing it would come faster.

no tears today,

i’m too damned depressed to cry

and just empty enough to write.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The next three poems are a Triad that must be read together. Each one was inspired by the writing of Bukowski. One of my favorite poets. He's the man that taught me that great poetry is allowed to break the rules. Great poetry is lawless.

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