(with acknowledgements to Charles Bukowski)

I sit here on the 3rd floor

hunched over in monochrome

walking clothes

pretending to be

a writer.

Alone today

but on other days

other people around me

have pretended

much better than me.

The story of the day

like every other day

is a story for me

about a person like me

with thoughts like me

doing things like me.

We write what we know.

But what do I know?

I sometimes read

what I have written

and wonder what the fuck

I think I’m doing.

Once a flood

some words fall together

that don’t seem awful

but most of the time

they look back at me

like unwanted children.

People wonder why I do it

if it isn’t making me happy

or going anywhere

and I wonder myself

I do wonder

but I keep going.

Perhaps this is the reason:

I need to hear

the gods laugh

the gods laugh

the gods laugh.