Bukowski.

I named my dog after Bukowski.
Actually, we got him from a
family of hunters in
northern Wisconsin.
They named him
Buckshot.

They had a camo garage.

We figured he'd respond to it
and it would be much
less embarrassing
to say out loud.
He was young enough.
He could learn.

We ended up calling him Cowboy.

But Bukowski has
made me think.

He was a blogger without the internet.
He wasn't actually a poet.
If he had music
backing his words
he'd be cheating.
He wasn't
a musician.

Doesn't mean it isn't great.
Great lyrics
get lost sometimes.
So at least you got that
going for you.
Which is
nice.

I suppose we could go into some sort of
post-modern
analysis of what
is and isn't
poetry.
We'd all look like
assholes
and neither of us
would care
about the outcome.

Writing about
Death rattling
TV ruining
going to
the
bar.
Drinking too much.

Those are journals.
Windows into
a twisted
sarcastic
bitter
but
concerned mind.

Writing about preferring
Farting
over
Fucking.

That's not poetry.
That brand of
disgust
is no longer in books.
If it were
no one would
care.

Anyone who would write that
writes
a blog
now.

So here's to ol' Hank.

I'm trying to keep this dumb,
easily deleted
temporary
world
of the internet
interesting for
a
few minutes.

and some woman once told me
"Your blogs
are
great.
Blog more."

Thankfully,

the internet didn't exist
back
then.