Bukowski spoke to me in a dream;
He said the truth can be a lie
& there is beauty in slumming.
So I quit my job
To become a waitress,
& I prayed for the salvation of sour alleys
I prayed for a good rain to wash me clean
For cigarette smoke to cleanse me like an Indian ceremony.
I prayed to find genius in my ignorance.
I prayed to find God in the bush,
To find God at the bottom of a bottle,
To find God as I wandered.
My inspiration ran dry like an arroyo.
I cursed it.
But it put a pox on me instead.
I waded into the lake
Until my skin pruned up
Attempting to channel Plath.
I wrote in moleskines
To tap into the Lost Generation.
I waned from glory
To find the disgraced.
I tried everything until Bukowski
Appeared to me in a fever dream--
A side effect of my Bell Jar moment.
He told me there is beauty in slumming
So I ditched the 19th century poetry
For pulp fiction.
I watched MTV & VH1.
I gave up prozac for beer.
I gave up.
I gave up and tried again.