comfortable

Fine then, thunderclaps at midnight, death in the plaza.
My shoes need shining.
My typewriter is silent.

I write this is pen
in an old yellow
notebook
while
leaning propped up against the wall
behind the
bed.

Hemingway said, "it won't come
anymore."
later-the gun
into the
mouth.

Not writing is not good
but trying to write
when you can't is
worse.

Hey, I have excuses:
I have TB and the
antibiotics dull the
brain.

"you'll write again," people
assure me, "you'll be
better than
ever."

that's nice to know.




I love you bukowski.