Can I be Bukowski for a day? A couple of hours? In a college town, after reading his literary sex-rant poetry or prose to a thirsty audience. Word has it that even that bulbous nose was overlooked. His purple prose made pink steam fill the small room for the reading. San Francisco, 69, the summer of love, I think. The year Endless Summer was released, and black light posters filled young girls’ bedrooms with the California surfers. I don’t care for California. Nothing against it. A beautiful woman I once loved lives there. She is amazing. Gone.

“She moved,” our mutual friend said last week.

“We were done. I was done, anyway. We had a lovely renaissance to nurse our ailments. We were a gift to each other. The relationship didn’t last, but the love will always flutter my smiles. She was wonderful.

I learned two things. 1. Attached love is the only way to go. 2. I can’t make you evolve. It’s got to be your plan, your idea, your goals. Our goals didn’t add up. She always expected she’d return. I knew I wouldn’t leave Texas willingly. At least… Well, not until my dad… He’s not my real dad. That guy died when I was 22. This is my adopted dad. We’ve adopted each other. He’s both muse and oracle. He predicts the weather. Advises against hookers and blow. Asks me about my job hunt, and then asks if I want a Topo. His sandwich mastery is unequaled in all of Tarrytown.

You need a friend like that. I’d like a few hours with a new woman each night after my national book tour. Poetry? Give me a break. Name a bestselling poet, and I’ll show you a whimsical and innocent marketing marvel by a poet who draws cute illustrations for her cute poems. They are cute. Sparse. Funny. Surprising. And fluff. Nothing there. See if you can tell me one line from the poem.

Twas brillig and the slithey toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe… – Jabberwocky

Go for it, I’ll wait.

I saw today that Walt Whitman was being censored at Texas Tech University. He’s too gay. They are cracking down on any DEI agendas. Mention lesbian, women’s studies, and homophobia, and you’re going to get a pass to the president’s office. “What do you have to say for yourself, Walt?”

“If I contradict myself, then I contradict myself.”

Go ahead, say the next line. You know it. I’ll wait.

Do you know it? Song of Myself? Leaves of Grass? Love of men and women equally. The bard of America, the Civil War, and Lincoln. His poem about Lincoln’s death is bitter and his most famous. I like “I Sing the Body Electric” personally. What about you?

Okay, if not Walt, who do you love to read? What wordsmith or songsmith gets your blood carbonating? My young nephew said he didn’t like Bono’s voice all that much. I nearly challenged him. But why? He likes songs with banjos and fiddles. I do not. Or, not so much. Some of it is good. It’s a taste that I don’t intend to acquire. Enough said.

Have I run off course yet?

Love sex poetry magic. That’s where we were. The fantasy about a book tour or a college professor irresistible and single. I mean, how many times do you think MMc gets propositioned? I bet it is a lot. Not my fantasy.

“The good thing about college girls, we keep getting older
and they stay the same age.” – bad paraphrase of Dazed and Confused

I’m happy plodding along. I’d like a bit more income, please. Coming. I want to think I’m swimming toward a shore of ease and comfort. A time to write, to play, and to kiss. To sing and dance. To learn new languages together. I do long for my partner in crime. Crimes as yet unimagined. When she arrives, it will melt all of my maps and ideas of what I want vs. what I need. If she’s available, has time and attention, and points her shoulders at mine, I will not hesitate after initial drug testing and emotional viability measurements have been done. The last one… A very near miss. A timing or sync error.

I miss her.