i often think about what bukowski said about the old dogs
fighting so well in tiny rooms.
crazy as ever
hitting their typewriters hard
without women or food or hope.

and i remember what started it all for me.
i wanted to burn everything -
every bridge that would bring me back to what i use to know.

i can't swim or drive or fly,
so please don't ask me to.

i can't get to you now.

while you're investing in stock,
i'm investing in fear.

i don't live well
but i live fine.

mornings are always erratic -
the mattress is on the floor and the coffee is cheap.

i don't care much for anything else.

how many tiny rooms will i sleep in?
how many tiny rooms will i write in?
how many hypothetical conversations,
existential conversations,
can i have before i'm taken seriously?
until i can feel the thrill of being alive?

i don't care much for anything else
but feeling somewhat alive
even half-alive would do.

i always crave what i can't have.
come and find me.